


It Came and it Went

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Genderbending, Genderswap, Not Beta Read, Random & Short, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killers, Sirens, Swearing, you will find typos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:03:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 42,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6766066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble collection of some plot ideas that come to mind. Some will be long, and some will be rather short. Some will make sense, and some may not. Some will be rated E while others will be no higher than rated G. Chapter summaries will be provided to warn you in advance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intertwined

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble collection for Tomione ideas that I have. I hope you enjoy, and more tags will be added as I go along. The rating may change, but I'll be tagging each story with its appropriate ratings and warnings right before to avoid triggering anyone. I hope you all enjoy what comes to mind, and that you leave comments and such. They make me feel nice. Let me know if you see any typos or weird grammar things, I have no beta and there's only so much proofreading can do.
> 
> Rating: G  
> Warnings: kissing
> 
> I have no idea what inspired this one, but I just wanted to write in Tom's perspective and here we are.

It wasn’t in the first chance meeting, or even in the second for that matter that their fates became so irrevocably intertwined.

It came unexpectedly, like the gust of wind in a placid evening. It was the spark before all-consuming fire; the kind that fed easily on the green and the muddy brown earth, and reveled in its destruction.

She was like him, in more ways than he could ever expect.

She was the flame that burned, while he was the ice that made his victims feel that same icy burn before consuming them too.

She was heat, and despite the cold in his heart, he did not _burn_. He did not melt at the sight of her hair cackling with the energy of her ire, or passion. But it consumed him all the same, just as he knew that he did her.

He could still recall the instance he first met her, and how her hair, even then, was swirling with repressed anger and hatred when he looked into her own gaze—it was curious, and curious things _always_ had a place in his orbit. It intrigued him, despite the casual way she tried to treat him and the almost strained nature of the pleasantries she tried to share.

She was frightened, he could tell, but he could not fathom _why_. And despite the obvious skittishness in the way she regarded him in the presence of the Headmaster and the old fool Dumbledore, that fear was delicately bound to a hatred that was almost heady.

He pondered over the interaction for days since then, and made it a goal to try to understand what it was that he could have done to have earned such a mix of reactions from the unknown girl.

Hermione Granger.

A curious girl with dubious origins, that at the time, should have served as deterrent enough, but didn’t.

He followed her for days since their meeting, but never quite imposed his presence upon her. _Not yet_ , he had thought to himself then, watching her carefully over the rim of his goblet from across the hall. He could read it in the tenseness of her shoulders, and the way her warm, brown eyes flickered between her book and himself, that she was fully aware of his attentions. It was humorous to him, even now recalling their interactions, how she would arch her brow, almost in challenge when his eyes would catch her own.

It was such a simple thing, but nothing even his sycophants would ever dare to do.

And that was how things quickly led into the second meeting, that just as the first, showed little of the future they would both find.

He found her in the library—tucked away at the corner away from the prying eyes of the librarian and other students. She was huddled over her book, her hair curtaining over the old thing and obscuring her visage to him. Her hair was just as chaotic as it always was, holding promises of unrestrained energy in the way it refused to tame the many times he had seen her combing through it with her fingers.

He had walked up to her solitary table, his feet light, almost silent, so as not to interrupt her moment with the book until he deemed to. He could hear her breathing, and the soft sound of her turning a page despite not being able to actually see it with her hair obscuring the motion. He was in no hurry at all, watching as he always did and trying to tease out answers in her hunched form that he knew he would not get so easily. It made the coming conversation all the more exciting, with its promise of a challenge.

He cleared his throat, his eyes crinkling in amusement when the girl jumped in her seat. Her hair parted easily with the motion, revealing surprised and confused eyes when her peaceful moment was shattered by the last person—he could easily tell—she wanted to see. It was almost like watching a puzzle unfold, the way her emotions flashed easily in her eyes then, to only shutter away into a composed, and rather bland, expression.

He remembered how impressed he was that it almost resembled his own.

“Is there something you want, Riddle?” she did not wait for him to speak at all, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between them with her melodic, yet steely tone. It was like glass—sharp enough to cut, and beautiful when chanced upon.

“Only your lovely company,” he smiled easily then, finding it surprising for even himself that he meant what he said. She quirked a brow at that response, her hand lifting to motion for him to have a seat. And he did just that, his interest peaking further when she did not reject him. She was good at hiding her emotions, but her shoulders revealed how discomfited she really was at his arrival—and how her fingers seemed to shake slightly despite making attempts to still it by placing them on the book instead.

“I do hope you’re alright with sitting in silence then, I have no interest in talking to you,” she spoke again, catching his eyes with her own, before turning her attention back to the book as if he had not interrupted her moment at all. He had been rather upset at that—that a _mudblood—_ had dared be dismissive of his attentions, but really, he should have taken that as a sign of the potential that she had.

Of the knowledge and the power hidden beneath that delicate, yet distanced face.

He had remained watching her out of spite, and reveled in the continued tenseness to her shoulders, and how her attention was not so easily captured by the book as it had earlier. He remained there until she huffed, and slammed the book shut, watching her with barely repressed amusement as she angrily stuffed her things into her tiny bag and fled from the library.

He did not understand that at that moment, their fates would be so intertwined. That now, as he recalled those two short instances, that he could not even dream of ever parting from her.

“Tom,” he turned his head towards the voice, his reminiscing interrupted by the same person consuming his thoughts mere seconds earlier. She stood by the doorway, the light behind her casting shadows on her face as he stood from his seat to cross the short distance between them. He dwarfed her , but that could never intimidate his Lady. Not as much as it inspired her ire.

She reached for him, completely ignoring his attempt to goad her anger by trying to impose his size on her—he _knew_ how much she hated it—but that was another matter for another time. She cupped his cheeks with her palms, reveling in the iciness of his touch rather than flinching away as others might have. It was a complete contrast to the heat she exuded, to the passion and the anger, but it was like a soothing balm.

They connected in ways that no others could—instead of being silenced, he had freed her, and instead of ending his existence, she had given him life.

She gazed into his eyes—the same ones that had both frightened and inspired deep hatred in her the first time they had met her own—and now, they were something to look forward to. She coaxed his face to her own, the silky locks like running water beneath her fingers as she pressed her lips to his, and let the familiar burn swell around them.

It was chaste, but the way their own magic danced with each other at the contact was anything but. She smiled into his own heated expression—a crack only she could make on his cold armor—and rubbed his cheeks affectionately. “The world is ours,” she whispered breathlessly, eyes shining with mirth as his own lips quirked into his familiar smirk. “Indeed, my Dark Lady,” and he leaned into her own, the memories of their past flickering in the back of his eyes. _Mine._


	2. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Warnings: Muggle-style violence
> 
> This is one of my long drabbles. I wanted to write (it's almost like a rite of passage) a Time-Travel AU and a "done with your shit" Hermione.
> 
> Enjoy, and please leave comments and kudos!

“So tell me, Hermione,” drawled a voice—an all too _familiar_ , and _annoying_ voice.

She did not look up from the book she was reading, all too aware that if she so much as inclined her head in his direction, the night would take a weird turn. It was already weird enough that she was trapped in the bloody 40s, where the Feminist movement had yet to really take off, and fashion yet to make any sense. It was agony—to be constantly at odds with the school attire and the bloody norms of that century, but Hermione knew that if she did not adapt, she would have to deal with more and more interactions with _him._

And she was already at her wits end with his damn interest.

She was staring a hole into the book, ignoring that itch at the back of her head that she always got whenever he stared at her. It was painful, really. And she tried her best to try to make sense of the words on the page, knowing rather well that she was going to get nowhere with _him_ breathing down her neck.

She knew it was fruitless to ignore him—she would inevitably cave as she always did, but she would still try. She was pretty sure she was going mad trying to get a different outcome by doing the exact same thing, but it was better to do something than to do _nothing_ at all. Aside from, of course, killing the source of her unease and irritation.

When the minutes seemed to stretch, and the bloody prat had yet to leave her alone, Hermione was compelled to get up and leave—to say fuck it to whatever it was that he wanted to ask. Admittedly, she was a bit intrigued by his arrival and question, but she would not bite. He had already tricked her one too many times to get something out of her— _stupid Granger, stupid!_ —but not this time. She was stepping out of this mess.

However, her thoughts must have shown on her face, because there was suddenly a body standing directly across from where she was reading. The table served as a nice barrier between them, but it was still much too close for her liking. It took everything in her to keep her gaze turned to the book, but she managed, despite feeling incredibly hyper aware of his gaze and his proximity. It would be hard not to be aware when he was the future Dark Lord, _and_ an incredibly sane one at that.

She briefly wondered if they would have even stood a chance if his older self had retained even a _smidge_ of that sanity, and shuddered at the dark direction that thought took. She doubted they would have lived to tell the tale—or in her case, lived to mess with the “dead” Horcuxes that landed her in the past in the first place.

She heard him sigh, breaking the silence that seemed almost impenetrable. It was the first time she had heard him make the sound at all—not that she actively tried to be around the boy to begin with.

At first, she had not seen hair or hide of him, reveling in the fact that she could ultimately live in the castle in peace without having his spidery fingers there to ruin everything. It was a beautiful adjustment period—having to reign in her temper whenever a boy made a sexist comment or having to spend almost stupid amounts of time trying to fit in with the fashion. She utterly hated everything about it, but in that month that she was not under Riddle’s close scrutiny—it was bliss.

But then it was all ruined when she could not reign in her desire to excel in class.

It was stupid, she could admit. Completely insensible and illogical of her to try to beat him in the classes she had him in—which were _all of them_ \- but she could not stand the almost smug air that radiated around him when he was able to answer questions correctly. She could say it was the Gryffindor in her that ultimately had her shoving her foot in her mouth, but all the same, the deed was done, and now she had to live with the consequences of that one moment—moments, in all honesty—of weakness.

She could not get rid of him now, and it was starting to get on her last nerve.

“Get out,” she snapped before she could really register what she had done. She wanted to smack herself for the impulsive comment, dreading what was to come now that she had acknowledged him. It was one thing to ignore him and continue to ignore him, but another to ignore him and fail to do so in the end. “I am trying to study, and I cannot do so with you bloody breathing down my neck, Riddle,” she continued with a frustrated edge to her tone—deciding that since she had already opened her mouth, she might as well finish the thought.

She was met with a long pause, and Hermione was sorely tempted to lift her head to see what it was that he was doing—to see if his face would reveal what he was thinking. It was a useless sentiment, and it was humiliating enough that she was tempted to even take a look. She knew his face would not reveal a thing, but a girl could dream.

The silence seemed to stretch for much longer than her attempt at ignoring him did, and Hermione had to fight hard to stifle the shakes that wanted to seize her. It wouldn’t do to show him that she was completely uncomfortable with the silence—it would only make things worse for her.

“Well? Are you going to leave or do I have to show myself out so I could have some damn peace?” she snapped again, slamming the book shut hastily and looking at him finally when she couldn’t handle the silence any longer.

She regretted it instantly.

He was leaning over the table, his hands resting on the smooth surface as he looked at her. His eyes were boring into her own unflinchingly, the coldness in the depths reminding her easily of a Dementer’s. It was a cold that thrived in stealing the warmth of others—a darkness that swallowed and consumed everything in its path with little thought or effort. It was the look of a murderer—a young one, but one that already had four deaths under his belt. It made Hermione’s palms sweat, and her legs turn to jelly.

Good thing she was sitting down because she was sure her legs would have collapsed from the look alone.

She averted her gaze away immediately, fixing her eyes on his forehead, when she realized she was looking him directly in the eyes—afraid that he had caught the direction her thoughts had turned. He was a Legilimens, and a strong one at that, it didn’t matter that he was 17 years old—he was a prodigy, and there was very little he could not do. She hated that it made her seem submissive, as if she were losing a war, but she wasn’t stupid enough to keep looking into his eyes when he could potentially unveil her secrets. So, she focused all her anger to different points on his forehead, and on any part of his face that she could safely look at, hoping that it would serve as enough of a deterrent for him to leave.

It wouldn’t, but she still had to try. It would at least stall him for a little longer before he actually got to the crux of why he even sought her out.

If he noticed the hasty way that she looked away from his eyes, he didn’t show it. His face was perfectly blank—an empty canvas that would only glow with color whenever he deemed it necessary. It was painful to look at him—to truly follow the contours of his hard jaw, the sharpness of his high cheek bones, to note the straight and even nose that sat perfectly at the center of his face, and the plump lips and almond shaped eyes that seemed to draw the eye of even the most stubborn. It felt as if his looks alone could cut—and it reminded Hermione easily of a sword.

It was a daunting task to look at him, and it was a sensation that Hermione herself could never get used to whenever she unfortunately was hit by the brutality of his beauty. But still, she looked at him. She ignored the knowing gleam that suddenly seized his eyes when Hermione had to shake herself to rid the stupor only he could put her in, and glared.

“You seem uncomfortable around me,” he finally stated, the words smooth and velvety in its drawl. It made her tense, her glare softening for a moment in shock, before smoothing into a neutral expression—shuttering away the panic and the unease that was churning relentlessly in her stomach. _‘This is dangerous,’_ she thought, before contemplating what to reply.

“I am uncomfortable around everyone,” she supplied in return, congratulating herself internally when her words did not come out weak or nervous. His lips curved upwards at the response, an unsettling mix of a smirk and a smile.

It did not look very promising to Hermione, and she failed to stifle the shudder that escaped her at the implications of that look. She had found, more often than not, that he did not even try to hide the darkness inside him from her. It was as if he already knew that she knew, despite her best efforts to pretend. It was as if he could sense the unease that radiated off her whenever he was around, and that only made the situation far more nerve-wracking than it already was. She had to tread lightly.

“What I want to understand, though-,” he continues, a thoughtfulness to his tone that Hermione was not certain she liked. Her fingers were itching to grab her wand—the desire to protect herself flaring wildly as she resisted reaching for it. There would be no explaining why she had drawn her wand on the Head boy, and she had to play her part well. She had made it this far in the term—almost to graduation—and she would not let her efforts go to waste. He would be gone, and so would she—and they would never have to see each other again. “Is why you look as if you’re going to pull out your wand at any moment?” her breath caught at the question, trying to think of a multitude of ways to explain this. Was she that transparent? _‘Did I make a mistake? I was so sure that I was do-”_

Her thoughts completely cut off when he quickly stepped away from the table, and started to move around it so that there was no longer anything separating them. She could not stop herself from jerking up from where she sat, paying little mind to the seat that toppled over with her haste to move. She drew her wand before she was consciously aware of it, fingers trembling as he continued to approach until the wand was planted firmly against his chest.

Her heart felt like it was going to come out her throat—a dreadful combination of nausea and nerves that had her close to upchucking her lunch onto his clean shoes. She had never felt this scared in her life—not in all the battles, and in all the remarkable adventures her and her friends had been enlisted on. Nothing could have prepared her for this, and it was not necessarily the Dark Lord that made things awful, but the fact that she was not supposed to mess with time! If she changed anything—even one little minute detail—there would be significant consequences to the timeline as she knew it. Her presence as it was changed things, but if the Dark Lord managed to even catch a whiff of the knowledge she had, they were all completely fucked.

Utterly fucked.

So she couldn’t really blame herself for pointing her wand at the “perfect” Head boy.

She squared her shoulders, her chin lifting high to belie a confidence she didn’t have, but would pretend to have anyway. She could feel fear, but she would not let it control her. Even if it had already forced her into drawing her wand to put some distance between herself and Riddle.

“Do you point your wand at everyone?” Her jaw clenched in annoyance, noting the teasing quality to his words and the look of delight in his gaze. It was honestly the most expression she had ever seen on his face, and Hermione faintly wondered what she could have done to land herself in this hell.

“Do you corner innocent girls in your free time!?” she snapped back, jabbing the wand more pointedly into his chest in irritation. She seized that anger like a lifeline—hoping against hope that it would drown out the internal screaming at the back of her head telling her to run. At any other time, she may have even obliged the voice, but it was too late now and her pride would definitely not allow it.

He raised a brow at that, seeming to brush off the snide comment to simply stare at her. She felt incredibly small under his eyes—noting with a sick amount of detail how he appraised her from the ends of her brand new shoes to the top of her head, where surely, her hair was sparking with barely concealed power. She could feel her magic frizzing up the mane, and the way he scrutinized it made her all the more conscious of the fact that it just _had_ to be defying gravity. It was a sore spot for her—a genuine pet peeve when people made fun of her hair, and even if he had yet to say a thing, she was very sure that he was thinking something rude.

She scowled irritably at the audacity, pressing her wand harder into his chest while trying to ignore the fact that she was _digging her wand into Voldemort’s bloody chest._ If she weren’t actually living it, she would have thought she had finally gone bonkers—completely mad. But it was happening. It was real, and she knew that for any one thing that she did in this time, there was a price.

“Innocent girl-?” he chuckled as he said it, almost as if he were trying to repress genuine mirth caused by her choice of words. It was, quite honestly, pissing her off. “Do innocent girls often sneak into the Restricted section to read into the Dark Arts?” she froze, noting with a horrified look in her eyes that he stepped closer to her, blatantly ignoring the wand that was pressed into his chest.

She took a step back, unconscious of the fact, but once it clicked that he was going to keep moving—she dug her feet into the floor and stepped forward until she felt the heat radiating from his body. She wasn’t going to back down. Dark Lord or not, she wasn’t a bloody punching bag. “Oh? And how is it that you know that? Have you been _stalking_ me?” She hisses, redness creeping into her cheeks. “What is it that you truly want to know, because quite frankly, the suspense is just _killing_ me.” She was whispering this furiously, her face completely flushed and her eyes narrowed into tiny points.

If looks could kill, Riddle would be dead a thousand times over. But he seemed completely unaffected by her words, his lips screwing into a smirk that fit best on that of a demented psychopath than a young man.

She was sincerely wishing the ground would somehow swallow her whole and spit her back out to her own time. Anything was better than the look he was giving her—like the victorious cat that was about to have a delicious snack. “Why, you just only had to ask,” he stated easily, his voice deeper and breathier than she had ever heard it. She was struck by the sound, her brain somehow scampering to make sense that such a _human_ sound could actually leave the aloof boy’s lips. It was alarming in its humanity, and entirely too distracting.

Unfortunately, it was the exact moment he was looking for.

He suddenly pushed her wand aside, as if he were swatting a bug, before his hand grasped tightly onto the wrist of her wand hand, jerking it behind her back painfully until she dropped it. She scrambled to get out—her mouth opening to scream, but that too, was accounted for. His other hand quickly closed over her lips, his grip tight and unyielding in spite of the almost casual way he did it. She was jerking, fighting him even with the painful angle he had her arm in—it felt like knives were trying to dig deep into her shoulder, but she still thrashed.

She heard him sigh when she refused to hold still, and almost as if he were chastising a child, he jerked the hand pinned mercilessly higher into her back. She groaned, the sound muffled by the cold hand pressed firmly against her mouth. But still, she did not stop. She refused to yield.

She heard him tsk this time, her mind conjuring up an image of what his look could have been in that exact moment before he lifted her arm even higher. She couldn’t repress a scream, struggling more from the pain than to be defiant now. It fucking hurt, and when she noticed with sickening realization that he did not stop putting pressure on her arm, she panicked. He kept lifting, and pulling, and she was quite sure he was going to break her arm if she didn’t do something.

So, against the instincts screaming for her to jerk away from his hold, and her own pride, she stopped moving and tried to relax despite the pins and needles jabbing into her shoulder. It would be useless to lose her arm when she might need it later.

He paused at the sign of compliance.

 It was silent for a moment, and Hermione was thanking Merlin and any other person of importance out there that he hadn’t broken her arm. But then, to her surprise, he actually _slackened_ his hold on the arm—not enough for her to get away, but definitely enough that she wasn’t grunting into his hand in pain. His hand was still closed over her lips though, and Hermione was sorely tempted to bite it. She knew screaming would be useless now—especially when she heard him whisper behind her, before she felt the familiar tingle of magic being cast.

She was sure he had silenced where they were hidden in the library, so it really made no difference if she shouted off the top of her lungs. Though, she wasn’t sure why the hell his hand still covering her mouth? It was irksome, and she huffed in annoyance at the continued silence that followed. He could at least take his hand out of her mouth so they could speak and get the entire affair over with. But knowing him, he probably enjoyed drawing out the whole damn process.

So she waited—and bloody _waited_ with his damn hand over her mouth.

“You’re not from this time,” she froze completely at the words falling seamlessly from his lips, trying but failing to hide the shock that overtook her. ‘ _He knew!’_ “Quite possibly not even from this decade, if your complete bafflement with this age’s fashion and customs are any indication.” Lord help her. She was struggling again this time, trying to move as far away as she could, but when he lifted her arm almost in reprimand for her movement, she stilled with a pained moan passing through her lips.

“And it even seems-,” he continued, his tone deceptively light, but she knew. She _knew_ there was nothing light and harmless to him—nothing soft to the sharp edges of his being that could cut through bone and stone. He was unyielding and cruel, and he _knew_. And she had to do something to get herself out of this mess before he completely unraveled all the nuances of her time. “-that you knew me, or of me, in your time,” she felt her breath escape her in an ugly mix of fear and relief. He didn’t _know_ , but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try to get it out of her. And she was damn sure he could do it if she underestimated him even for a moment.

“Aside from your questionable attire-,” her lips twisted at that comment, but if he noticed, he didn’t so much as acknowledge it. “-your fear of me was perhaps the most notable thing. You avoided me despite my efforts to befriend you, and that, made you all the more suspicious.”

She felt the hand on her mouth gentle then, fingers lightly smoothing over her lips almost as if he were thinking of what to say next. It made her lips tingle, and she wanted very badly to swat the hand away—the urge to bite high, but the reality of the situation stopping her. “It was curious, but not something completely unheard of to happen in women-“ she growled then, the gentle touch of his hands growing firm once more when she tried to swivel her head around to glare at him. ‘ _Sexist pig!’_

Ignoring her blatant display of anger, he continued. “-so I paid it little mind until you, a seemingly average female student, started to excel and even _compete_ with me in classes,” he was chuckling by the end of it, the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck causing goosepimples to rise across the skin. Had he always been that close? “A mudblood girl? I could hardly believe it,” his fingers were caressing her lips again regardless of how tense her shoulders were. She should just bite them bloody off.

And she actually did, her teeth closing around the digits—surprising herself and him, if the tensing of his arm was any indication.

But he did not let her go for all the rage that came with the bite, her teeth sinking through the flesh until she could taste his blood on her tongue. It was foul—she did not want anything of his anywhere near her, but she could not control the fire wanting to burst out of her lungs. She hated the helplessness, hated the fear, and having to walk on egg shells since arriving to the bloody 40s. She was just so _sick_ of it.

And regardless of the blood, and the obvious hiss of pain he released, he did not move at all to release her. In fact, his grip on her wrist tightened—the only signal she received before he was shoving her against the bookshelf directly in front of her. She released his fingers in shock—the movement making an audible wet pop before she groaned in pain when he yanked her back by her arm and slammed her again. She was completely disoriented, her vision momentarily clouding from the force of the blow—but she was no longer holding still. “ _Let go!_ ” she screamed out, her voice sounding feral and desperate.

She sounded like the sound of glass breaking—unpleasant and distinct. Notwithstanding the pain in her arm, the iron flavor of his blood on her tongue, and the dizziness from the two forceful shoves against the shelves—she started to jerk until his grip on her arm was wrenched free of his own. She whirled around, letting instinct completely overtake her as instead of fleeing like any sensible person would, she stalked towards him.

He had failed to draw his wand, and she dug her fingers into that opportunity.

“ _Accio_ wand,” she reveled in the familiar warmth of her wand when it reached her palm, feeling her magic surround her in a protective embrace before shoving Riddle hard with the force of her magic, pinning him to the opposite side of the small shelves. She didn’t give him a second to move, slipping her hand into his pocket and grabbing his wrist with enough strength to bruise. She had dug the blunt end of her wand to his throat, and grinned smugly at the ill intent swirling in his eyes. He looked absolutely livid—as livid as an expressionless face could—and she _reveled_ in the headiness of the feeling of victory.

She had _bloody surprised and bested the future Dark Lord._

She avoided his eyes, carefully observing the way his chest fell and rose rapidly from the adrenalin despite looking composed—how his cheeks were more flushed, and his pupils blown wide until they overtook the entirety of his iris. It was looking at a hungry shark—a hungry, and quite pissed off shark.

“Listen here, Riddle-,” her voice sweet. A sharp smile on her face as her fingers dug painfully into his wrist to prevent him from reaching for the wand only inches close. “-stay away from me, and I won’t show your little pack of sycophants how you were bested by a _muggleborn girl_ ,” she dug the wand into his chin as emphasis, carefully scrutinizing his face. “I’m sure that would be received rather nicely by your bigoted fan club, and of course, by your admirers when they find out how much of an _awful_ person you truly are.”

She continued with her smile unwavering, despite how badly she just wanted to collapse from the adrenaline. She didn’t know what overcame her—the anger was sudden and all-consuming. It was ugly, and she had no desire to think too much on it while she had to deal with Riddle. Any sign of weakness, and she’d be helpless, and _she had no interest in feeling that way again._ “Leave me alone, and this little interaction will be all but forgotten.” He tilted his head to the side as much as his position would permit, almost as if he were trying to draw out some sort of information from the power of his gaze alone.

Their positions were reversed, her wand pressed hard into his throat and her hand leaving bruises on otherwise unmarred pale skin, but the way he looked at her made it seem like he had not lost control at all. He was completely composed—no sign of his earlier rage, or even distress at her threat. The only clear expression to his face was the calculating glint in his eyes—similar to the mad glint in a scientist’s eyes when they found something particularly interesting. She didn’t like it.

“You have till graduation,” he murmured, breaking the silence that Hermione had not noticed coiled around them both. “I will give you the illusion of freedom. But your secrets are no more yours than they are mine,” she gaped at him then.

“You are mad if you believe that I will agree to this. I will not play games with you, Riddle,” his lips quirked into a smile, his eyes fixing into her own.

“What makes you think you have a choice? It matters little what you say when there is no proof to your claims. And your origins already make your words questionable at best to my Knights,” he actually laughed at her after that, and she couldn’t help how her nails dug hard enough on the delicate skin of his wrist to draw blood. She was seeing red, her lips pursed into an angry line as she tried hard to not lose her temper once more.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” she muttered, and watched with satisfaction when he crumpled beneath her feet. Giving him an answer is as good as agreeing to his terms, and she _refused._ It didn’t matter that her behavior was going to bite her in the ass come later, but it felt pretty damn good to do it. She eyed the beautiful boy, his expression more innocent than he could ever create in wakefulness before turning her attention back to her abandoned things.

She cast a _scourgify_ to remove any evidence of her presence before gathering her things, and fleeing from the scene. This wouldn’t be the last time she would see Riddle, but there was something to be valued in knowing she had beat him in something, just this once.


	3. Let Us Be the Sirens of the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SirenTom/Non-magical AU!
> 
> Rating: M (to be safe)  
> Warnings: Some sexual imagery, dubious consent, and just overall dark undertones. Tom isn’t nice at all. 
> 
> My contribution to Tomione Day, I hope you enjoy.
> 
> (Sidenote: The first perspective you get isn't Hermione herself, brownie points if you can guess whose it is).

She remained confined beneath her watery prison, her words caught in her throat. She wanted to shout them out to anyone that would listen—to warn any maiden that would dare be enchanted by the beautiful man hiding beneath the sea. But she knew, that no one would hear her, and no one would be there to take her message and warn the young maidens, and married swans living in the surface. No one would know of the monsters hiding in the dark—and how enchanting those creatures are.

No one would know about the monster lurking beneath the waves, and how he takes them into the dark before drowning them in search for the right one.

* * *

**_Years Later_ **

 

She watched the waves crash beneath her, transfixed by the way the darkness reflected the white pallor of the moon. There was something beautiful about the beach at night—about how lovely it first seemed at first light, but how terrifying and powerful it was once the sun set and the night came.

It was mysterious and dangerous.

And it was what always brought Hermione out of her old home in the evenings despite her parents’ constant reproach. They hated when she stayed out by the ocean too late, and sat too close to the water.

They were, perhaps, just as superstitious as the townsfolk—whispering of how the young daughter of the barber had disappeared when taking an evening dip, or how the mistress of the mayor was found drowned not too long ago when she had taken a stroll by the coastline. There were plenty of wild tales about how the sea swallowed you whole, about how a powerful wave destroyed a fishing boat and the poor riders drowned trying to swim for shore—those tales, she could believe without a single doubt.

But of a supernatural entity? Of a creature coming in to snatch your young girls beneath your coattails? She snorted aloud at the thought, running her fingers on the fine sand beneath her. That was definitely bollocks to her.

She was surprised her mum and dad were convinced by all the rubbish they spoke, but she could not find it in herself to blame them. There was something strange going on, and it would only make sense that they would try to explain it away with superstition rather than on the idea that a member of the town was snatching up women and murdering them.

It was just easier to blame it on a creature of fiction than to think about the possibility of a killer in your midst.

But all the same, Hermione was unconvinced of the dangers of sitting by the beach only mere feet from her parents’ yard, and as such, refused to be cowed into staying inside.

So that was how she found herself sitting beneath the full moon, basking in the scent of saltwater and sand despite her parents’ constant lectures. She had just come back home from college, and there was no way they could talk her out of visiting the one place she had always felt comfortable in. In fact, she might even say that she missed the small beach, as strange as that may seem to everyone else.

She dug her fingers into the sand before closing her eyes, basking in the breeze that wafted against her face and ruffled her already wild hair. By the ocean, there was no one to make rude comments about her hair or about how she dressed—nothing, but the sound of the ocean and the beautiful words of the books she took along with her.

So when a loud splash broke the quiet, disrupting the peace she had found on the small coastline, her eyes fluttered open in shock.

There were strange ripples not too far from where she sat, unlike the earlier flow of the ocean moving naturally. Could someone have snuck up on her and jumped into the ocean? Would someone really go out of their way to hide their presence to do that at all?

She rose immediately, dusting the fine sand that clung to her jeans before edging closer to the water.

_Well, if someone did jump in, they’d have to rise up to breathe at some point_ , she thought.

But when the minutes of standing there seemed to drag on longer than a person could physically withstand, she felt a knot of worry form in her belly.

Could someone have possibly drowned? Was it even a person? Fish, perhaps?

She was a loss at what to do in that particular situation. Despite how fond she was of the ocean, she could easily admit that she was shit at swimming, and there was just something unsettling about taking a dip when you could not easily see into the bottom of it. One thing was to admire it from a distance, but it was entirely another to actually _jump in_.

So she did not, unwilling to listen to the nagging voice at the back of her head telling her ‘ _what if it’s a person and they are drowning’_ over and over in her head like a mantra. But, she could not outright ignore just how _ridiculous_ the odds were of that being true. She had not seen a person, and even odder, it was much too close for it to be deep enough for even a _toddler_ to drown.

There was just no way.

The ocean had long since regained its natural ripples, the earlier anomaly having since disappeared. But despite that, Hermione felt disquieted by the whole affair. The breeze that she had earlier been enjoying now felt too warm, and her skin felt as if there serpents were dragging their bodies over it. She felt overheated suddenly, a strange desire willing her to refresh herself with the promise of relief in the waters so near her.

It was an intoxicating feeling, and entirely too terrifying.

She stepped back from the familiar sight, her feet unwavering in their mission to _get the fuck out of Dodge_.

She stumbled awkwardly as she fled the beach, unwilling to turn away from the water that had her bewitched and entirely frightened of what she could possibly be turning her back to. She didn’t feel alone the entire trip out of the beach. Even when the coast finally disappeared from her view, and after finally going up the familiar hill up to her house— she still felt like she was being watched.

She wasn’t sure what she had experienced out there, but she was definitely not going back for a long _long_ time if she had a say about it.

* * *

 

It had been many months since she had come home, and she felt immediate relief flood her when her mum opened the door, and led her into the kitchen she had many fond memories of. She could smell the familiar scent of baking—the sweetness and distinct flavor of vanilla wafting the air around her. Her father had baked for her, and if that was not a warm welcome, she was not sure what was.

She came up to her dad, kissing him on the cheek before snatching a warm cookie. She watched them both with a comfort she had not felt in ages, having dealt with the stress of final exams and having to convince her close friends in college to study and _not_ procrastinate any more than they had.

It felt good to be home, but she could not help but notice that despite their warmth, there was a hint of concern reflected in their eyes.

She pursed her lips at that, reclining against the open doorway of the kitchen, before finding the courage to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

“What’s going on?” she left it vague on purpose. She wanted to give them the choice to tell her, rather than outright force it out of them. If it had been any other occasion, she may not have been as charitable, but she was truly concerned about the worry that seemed to tinge the once seemingly happy reunion.

It left a bad taste in her mouth.

“Ginny went missing,” her mum finally found the courage to say, the words sinking deep into her gut like a blow.

She tried to reign in her breathing, finding that it started to feel heavy and easy to hear— _Ginny was missing?_

She tried, rather difficultly, to reign in the anguish that wanted to rush out of her lips. _How?_

When it looked like Hermione had found some semblance of control of her expressions, and nodded for them to continue with an encouraging smile, her father, this time, continued.

“She was training for a race—and well, we don’t know much of the details, but she was by the coast to improve her muscle resistance, and then, she just didn’t come home one night,” he paused then, watching Hermione’s expression carefully before going on. “Her parents were devastated, after finding that it had been more than three days, and she had not come home.” He finished, and she could not find it in herself to look into her parents’ eyes.

She could see the worry in their eyes. But also, the fear. A fear that she could smack herself for not noticing when she first arrived.

“Hermione,” her mum broke the silence that had fallen in the kitchen, and she finally forced herself to look up, noting the determination hidden beneath the mocha of her mum’s eyes. “Don’t go back to the ocean. I know you don’t believe the superstitions, but please, it would help me sleep better if you didn’t,” imploring her to stay, and she could not find it in herself to refuse. She loved her parents, truly, and after her own experience by the sea many months earlier, she herself was unwilling to go back. That comfort has since been lost to her.

“I won’t, mum. Don’t worry.”

* * *

 

The same night that she had made that promise was when the dreams started once more.

Hermione after having fled the sea the last time had been plagued by dreams until she had finally left before the beginning of the following semester. She didn’t think much of them at first—only remembering small fragments of them after waking up in a cold sweat and drenched knickers. They were innocuous, and despite the little sleep she had sustained because of them, she did not ponder too much on the details—convincing herself that it was merely stress about what the following semester could hold for her, and sexual frustration.

It was only on the night before her trip that she truly realized what the dreams could possibly mean.

And it was beginning all over again.

She stared hard at the ceiling, afraid and unwilling to close her eyes lest she fall asleep and find herself trapped in that darkness once more.

She counted the small grooves above her—careful in the way that she numbered them, before turning her attention to her window—wincing because she had chosen the room that had a direct view of the ocean—before turning to count the grooves of the ceiling all over again.

She had the tempter in clear sight, and it did not matter that it was a distance away and blocked off by the solid walls of her home. It still called to her—begging her to give in to what warms her skin, and crawls over it like the bodies of snakes.

It’s the same presence that overshadows her dreams—that whispers her name and tempts her with the lilting sound of its voice.

_“Hermione_ ,” she heard it clearly in her head, despite remaining very much awake. She jumped in her bed, her eyes immediately spearing to her window to search for the source of the sound, but finding none.

She sees the ocean in clear view—its waves begging for her to go to it, and the soft sand calling forth a memory of when she would sit there with a book and feel its grains between her toes. It was an ache deep in her gut—a hunger that no matter what she ate, she could not quell, and a thirst that no matter how much she drank, she could not quench. She grinded her teeth together to distract herself from the ache, and turned away from the sight, afraid to sleep but also afraid to be awake.

     

* * *

 

It was on the tenth night of powerful dreams and powerful need that Hermione broke.

She had been squirming in her sheets—a common affair since her nightly excursion many moons ago—with a heat that she could not abate no matter how much she touched, bathed, or drank. She _needed_ to sink beneath the waves not so far away. She needed to drown in the black depths of its eyes, and be seduced by the beautiful words that she believed only books could ever speak.

She was drowning in him—in his words, his touch, his lips. What did it matter if she drowned more?

And almost as if she were possessed, she threw the sheets from her bed and started to tear at her plain T-shirt and sweat pants she wore to bed. She scratched at herself in her desperation to free herself, feeling relief swarm beneath her skin as each inch of flesh was revealed.

She _needed_ to feel the air caress her skin—to the feel the ocean lick across the red tinged flesh that burned for only him. She wasn’t sure when it had become a he, and when she had long since forgotten her modesty and reveled in the debauchery that came with his seduction and predation. She was burning, and she was desperate for the source of both her suffering and relief.

It was how she found herself at the beach, her toes sinking into the sand with a sense of dread and longing. The smell of saltwater and the soft breeze caressing her quelled some of the burning beneath her skin—enough for clarity to finally return after days of suffering, but not enough to end the burning. She finally felt the familiar fear she had experienced the previous time she had come here—the comfort and ease that she once held long gone, just as her life would soon be. She could feel that end deep within the marrow of her bones, just as easily as she felt both disgust and longing for a creature she knew lurked beneath the waves. She was a conflict of emotions— utterly repulsed by the monster that had returned his attentions back to her the moment she had foolishly returned home, and relief. She couldn’t take it any longer—there was only so long she could fight the pull of the sea.

The sky was dark, completely desolate of any lights. The new moon having drowned her and the ocean with a black she had already grown familiar with.

She closed her eyes, refusing to look at what was to come and also, relishing in the sensation of her naked flesh in the cool night. She was a live wire of feelings, her fingers itching and her heart pumping blood so fast she thinks it might even fail her—and how amusing would it be, to die right before he could claim her? She wanted to laugh, but if she let the sound out, she knew it would rapidly degenerate to sobbing. She refused to give him that satisfaction.

At the sound of the waves moving, and the distinct break in the pattern only nature could interrupt, she opened her eyes and looked. She watched the water ripple unnaturally, parting enough for a figure to rise out of it as if he were the God of the sea himself. Everything about the movement was sleek—a grace that reminded her easily of a sea serpent wading through the river bank, of a predator prepared to sink its teeth into its meal and eat it whole.

He was completely cast in shadow, the moon not lending its powers tonight to reveal the true visage of a monster that had set its sights on her. But she knew who he was, and what he did—knew that the red in his irises was true to his nature rather than just for show. He was a monster—he was hellfire that consumed all that would throw themselves within his path.

And he had her in his sights, at last.

She trembled beneath the intensity of his stare—feeling her naked flesh pucker with gooseflesh and a heat that she hated herself for feeling.

It was intoxicating, and as terrifying as it was the last time.

“ _Hermione_ ” she closed her eyes at the sound of her name leaving his lips, feeling the heat coil and will her to move her body to where the promise of relief was. She ached, she desired, and she hated it everything he made her feel.

She hated that she knew what his face looked like under the moonlight, of how his lips felt when pressed on her skin, of how his fingers lingered in places she had never felt anyone touch, and of how his eyes seemed as bewitched by her as she was by him. She hated that he was caught up in her orbit as easily as she was by his—hated that her had taken Ginny simply because he could not have her.

It was madness.

“ _It’s time to come home,”_ he purred, and the words felt like the chains that they were—dragging her and taking her away from the life that she once had before.

She was going to die, of that she was certain, but who will she become once she awakens from the ashes of her old life, and old dreams?


	4. Enchantress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Warnings: Muggle-style violence, and just Tom's creepiness
> 
> This was inspired by reading a lot of fanfiction, and due to the absence of female/female action. I see a lot of Male!Hermione and Fem!Tom, but not a lot of both.
> 
> Enjoy, and please leave comments and kudos!

She was the storm that shattered the little peace that Hermione had found in the abandoned edges of her universe. She was the conduit of all calamity—the poison that rather than quickly kill its victim, settled deep into the bones of the poor sod until there was nothing left; not even ash. She burned her as if she had caught her hand on the stove of her kitchen—but there was no heat at all. There was no fire to blister the skin until there was nothing but a gaping maw of red and swollen agony—there was no warmth at all, but she still felt as if she were being consumed.

There was nothing hot about Tamsin Riddle, and yet, she found herself unable to stop the trembling of her limbs whenever she deigned to look upon her.

And she knew—knew that the itching and the prickling at the thin layer of her flesh was not truly the product of Riddle’s gaze. She knew that she was not going to eat her alive—was not trying to suck out the mysteries of her existence or unravel the little Hermione had preserved in this new time. She knew nothing, but Hermione could not help how her stomach twisted whenever Riddle passed her in the halls or held her gaze for too long during class.

There was nothing to be afraid of—oh, who was she kidding. There was everything to be afraid of.

She was in a new world, with a new Riddle, and without any way to return to the universe she had come from. She had nothing but the knowledge of her world, and the series of events that resulted in the destruction of her universe’s Riddle. Merlin knows how much merit that would have in this dimension—or wherever it is that she was.

She could not help the way her limbs trembled with her unease as she paced through the halls, forcing her arms to remain at her sides rather than tangled in the bird’s nest on her head. It had been months of this game—of being unsure if Riddle knew anything and was trying to trick Hermione by making her comfortable or was simply, _quite literally,_ in the dark about her background.

It was driving her mad.

And Hermione, in her haste to move as quickly as possible to her dorms, bumped into the only soul walking so close to curfew in the hallway. She made to apologize, grabbing the bag she had accidently dropped due to the collision before freezing altogether at the sight of the last person she wanted to see.

Tamsin Riddle watched her with her brow quirked upwards, a mocking gleam in her eyes that made Hermione grind her teeth in irritation. She was sure the other had to be able to hear the grinding from the amused quirk that pricked at her lips momentarily before settling into a cool expression of polite interest.

“Granger, what a pleasant surprise,” she purred, her lips quirking into a dazzling smile that Hermione was sure could charm the pants off anyone at the receiving end of it. “Out so late? It’s almost curfew.”

Hermione forced a smile to her lips, ignoring the way Riddle took in her very flushed and disheveled appearance from her earlier pacing and panic. She jerked the bag she was holding onto her shoulder, finally finding the courage to look the girl directly in the eyes.

There was just something unsettling about how dark they were—how one could not readily distinguish the pupil from the darkness surrounding it. It was a black hole that consumed all in its path without mercy, and Hermione, despite all that she had faced, had never before looked at evil this lucid. There was a startling quality of clarity and calculation in those depths that she had not experienced when in the presence of Belatrix Lestrange, or even the Voldemort from her universe.

She wanted to be in her time, and with her friends more than ever, but she would not be a coward. She had fought in a war against a wizard with far more experience and bloodlust than this version of Riddle—it hardly mattered that this one was lucid and female. She was still young, and as far as she was concerned, had yet to establish her Knights.

Hermione refused to be cowed.

“I was held up in the library. I was just heading back to my dorm,” she replied smoothly, forcing the smile to remain in place. She watched the girl tilt her head to one side, a gesture that made Hermione think immediately of a snake surveying its prey, before gesturing to the empty corridor that would lead immediately to the Gryffindor entrance.

“I will escort you, I am Head Girl, and it would not do to have you roaming the halls past curfew.”

Hermione would rather eat glass than stay a moment longer with the girl, but what other choice did she have? She nodded, not trusting herself to speak without a tremor, and followed the much taller and lithe young woman back to her dorms.

It was rather fortunate that it was not far, and she thanked Merlin and every bloody wizard she could think of that she didn’t have to stay in her presence any longer. They had been walking in silence for what felt like an eternity before it was swiftly shattered.

“Hermione,” the girl spoke, her tone not as polite or as falsely warm as it had been earlier. It was not quite artic, but it did nothing to stop the way her heart raced and her skin suddenly began to prickle with foreboding.

She had never heard her speak to anyone in that manner—not even those she was sure would be the future Knights of her roundtable.

“What are you afraid of?”

She stopped walking—her hand flying to her pocket to grab her wand before she felt a cool, and soft hand grasp at her wrist. The grip coiled tight, cutting off blood and preventing her from reaching the smooth wood that would give her a fighting chance should she need it.

Hermione clenched her free hand into a fist, and swung at the girl.

She was unsurprised when her hand met flesh—satisfaction swelling in her chest when she heard the girl hiss from pain or surprise—she wasn’t quite sure, and hardly cared, before yanking her hand free and turning her wand on Riddle.

Her cheek was red, a significant contrast to the pale softness of the rest of her sharp, and elegant cheekbones. It would be something anyone within a mile radius would be able to note—a pretty face with a large bruise was not an easy thing to miss.

She did not waver in her stance—watching how her short hair, shorter than any lady in this time had it, had broken from the meticulous style she wore it, to curl around her temple and forehead in disarray. She resembled a young boy more so than a girl in that moment, her height lending more credence to the observation. If it were not for the skirt, and the obvious swell at her chest—she may well have been Tom Riddle from her time.

“I do not like you,” Hermione finally broke the silence, watching the girl for any sign of movement. Tom Riddle had been proficient with his dueling in her time, she doubted this one would not be. “I find you dishonest and manipulative, and I would rather you stop with these games. I refuse to play by your rules, and it is in your best interest that you leave me in peace.”

She watched for any sort of reaction, but Riddle remained still, her face impassive, and only growing colder with each passing moment. “We can simply ignore one another, and move on with our lives. There is no need for this, I have no interest in whatever it is—“

“You are very afraid,” Tamsin interrupted, her eyes quickly catching Hermione’s as she spoke.

The look made her feel like she was being squeezed tightly—her insides both hot and cold with dread and adrenaline. “You are just as repulsed as you are attracted, can you not tell? Has it all occurred without you having any notion of what it is that you’ve started?”

Tamsin began to circle around her, flipping the loose curls away from her eyes as she moved. Hermione felt more like prey than ever before.

“You challenge my authority in the classroom,” she whispered, her voice unfeeling and cutting despite how soft it sounded tumbling from her lips. “You ignore my presence in the halls, and snuff any overtures of peace that I offer between us,” she walked closer, and Hermione took an unconscious step back before stepping forward, refusing to cave.

“You seem so strong out in the open, with the world watching, but here—“she walked closer still, Hermione quite unsure of how she had gotten just inches in front of her “ _alone_.” She growled the word out, a guttural sound that came from deep within Riddle’s chest rather than her throat. It made her skin crawl—the ice pinpricks and the burn that she so readily associated with Riddle making her fingers itch to hex the chit. “You tremble as if you are waiting for me to flay you alive. Why is that?”

Hermione jerked her chin up, her eyes unwilling to look away from Riddle’s despite how desperately she just wanted to _go._ Riddle was inches from her, her bosom pressed against her wand as she waited for Hermione to speak—her head tilted in its reptilian gesture of interest.

It was dangerous, and any answer she could give would either say too much or say too little.

“Is your ego so large that you think no one could ever dislike you? Could it not be that you are rather unsettling? You are dishonest and manipulative—two qualities, might I add—that would make anyone wary?” She kept her wand pointed at the girl, ready in the event that the simple pleasantries went sour.

“I’ll find out your secret, little Gryffindor,” and that was perhaps the first time Hermione had ever seen her genuinely smile. It was dazzling, and it was terrifying all at once. It was all teeth—reminding one of razor-toothed predators about to sink their jaws into their unsuspecting prey. There was nothing cherubic or pleasant about the smile, and that alone made her squirm. It was wrong, almost as if her lips would somehow split if it were anymore wider—if it were any more intense—and it fit her. Somehow it suited far better than the pleasant masks that she donned, or the placid looks of indifference she slipped in and out.

She was a Venice Flytrap—unsuspecting, and alluring to all those that came too close.

No one would ever expect that she would sooner dance on their graves than condescend another moment in their presence.

“Careful, your true colors are showing,” she couldn’t help hissing back when Riddle refused to move away despite having a wand pressed rather firmly to her chest.

She felt rather than saw the moment she had grabbed Hermione’s wand, smoothing her palm over the wood as if it were the most precious and delicate of items to have fallen into her grasp. It was rather disconcerting in its gentleness, and it completely threw Hermione for a loop. She was too shocked to even think of jerking her hand away—watching with sick curiosity how her hand found hers and continued its soft attentions.

_Just what the bloody hell was going on?_

“I believe, the Gryffindor common room is just beyond this hall,” her hand felt hot and cold all at once—it felt as if one, by one, tiny needles were being stuck into her hand with each continued second of contact. “I do hope you think about our discussion.”

When Riddle finally removed her hand, Hermione was immediately struck by the fact that she had _allowed_ it. That she had been too entirely jarred to even think to brush the small point of contact away despite how entirely disturbing the whole affair was. And would remain, if the calculating look in Riddle’s dark eyes were anything to go by.

Riddle stepped further away from her, ignoring the wand that Hermione refused to drop, before smiling the same smile that made Hermione’s skin crawl as if snakes themselves were dragging their bodies on her flesh, before turning and disappearing down the maze-like school.

Her hand was still tingling despite having been released from the unwanted attention, and Hermione, too stubborn and much too determined to ignore the implications of the entire thing—headed for the common room, completely unsure of when it was that she uttered her password to get in.


	5. A White Apple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: E  
> Warnings: Non-con, Tom's creepiness, mind control, and just the overall weirdness factor.
> 
> This is based off the Fae. Their sense of morality in skewed, so I easily imagined Tom as one of them. I kept the mythos as close to the story as possible.
> 
> This is a one-shot, and will remain a one-shot. Typos are my own. Please comment or leave kudos if you liked.

She lingered longer than she would have liked, watching as the light from the candle she had lit hours prior flicker, before extinguishing altogether. It was a sign that she had truly been awake too long for her own good, but she could not shake the fears that danced within her mind’s eye. She had not heard from her friends since they had left the previous day, and she knew it was truly uncharacteristic for them, and let alone _rude_ to keep her waiting for their letters announcing they had made it through the forest safely.

It was a day long trip, and she was sure they had to have arrived already—if they actually had—since it was already well past night fall, and they had left three days prior at first light. She could feel her stomach turning unpleasantly, like writhing snakes searching desperately for some sort of escape from inside her. There was little she could actually do but wait—but could she live with the knowledge that they were endangered because of her?

No, she definitely could not.

She rose from where she had spent the past few hours worrying, casting the dark room a short glance before turning her attentions to the coat rack, and easing her thickest coat from the dark wood. It was a few weeks into the fall season, and the small town she had chosen residence in was already rather nippy when the sun set. She would take no more risks than she was already taking—squaring her shoulders once she had settled into her coat before grabbing the musket she had hidden behind the rack.

She could feel the snakes in her belly begin to writhe again as she opened her door and felt the chilly air cut at her exposed face. It was too cold for anyone to dare leaving their home, but Hermione was determined not to let it phase her. She was dressed and was armed—she would not abandon her friends to save her own neck. She could never forgive herself if she did, already feeling guilty for allowing them to go knowing the risks. She would find a way to fix this.

Or die trying.

Her lips set into a grim line as she shut her door, giving it one last look before turning from it and making her way towards the barren dirt road mere feet from her front door. She didn’t bother with the horse shed, she would not risk Ben.

Where she was going, she wouldn’t need him.

She trekked silently through the road, her eyes sharp and her chin high with the musket pressed firmly to her chest. She could feel her anxiety rise as she grew closer to the entrance of the forest—the trees towering high above her petite form like giants reaching for the heavens.

They could have been beautiful—with their kaleidoscope leaves, and sturdy trunks—if not for what they hid easily behind that façade of beauty. The forest had taken far too many children from the town, swallowing them up like how pigs feasted on their grains and mulch. She had seen far too many be devoured—herself having lost her parents to it when she was only a young girl.

She refused to let it take her friends—she’d be fucking damned before she allowed it.

With tense shoulders, she finally broke through the first “defense”—what her parents had first called the gaping entrance of the wood—before stopping and just _listening_

She could hear the sound of the river not too far away rushing through—the sound deceptive in its familiarity. She ignored it, sure that it would not yield her the answers she sought, and listened further. She could hear the rustling of leaves in the night—the wind loosening a couple of her curls as the sound of the forest shaking with the force of it drowned out all other noise. There was a quiet weight that settled onto her shoulders—one that she had not felt since she had first set her eyes on the verdant foliage as a little girl. It was heavier than the thickest of silences, a pressure that she knew for sure would crush her if she let it.

But, for once, she let it sweep her away for a few short moments, feeling it dig its way deep into the pit of her stomach and spread until she felt the ends of her fingers tingle with its energy. She exhaled sharply at that, preventing it from traveling further than it had already, before opening her eyes—she wasn’t sure when it was that she shut them—and turned to face where the silence seemed to weigh the heaviest.

She shot in that direction, sure that she had caught the forest by surprise, as she twisted through the mazelike trees and the fallen bushes in search for her friends. They had to be there—she couldn’t silence the feeling of _knowing_ that swept her away like a hurricane did a home.

She ignored the sting of the branches catching her hair as she ran past, all too familiar with the violence that came with the life that pulsed within the woods. She had been cut, bruised, and beaten one too many times as a young girl while trying to uncover its secrets for the entire world to see—before it had decided it wanted to take from her as much as she wanted to take from it.

She knew it as well as it knew her—so well, that she was sure that her friends were there, nestled into the trees in some bizarre hopes that the sentient nature would leave them in peace.

“’Mione!”

She froze in her tracks at the familiar voice, nearly dropping the musket when she whirled around to face the last faces she had expected to see so soon.

“Harry, Ron?” She took a step forward, disbelief coloring her voice and face as she eyed the boys not a few feet away.

_Was it really them?_

She couldn’t help but feel suspicious of their sudden appearance, unwilling and at a loss as to what she should do.

“Is it really you?” She mustered the courage to ask, eyeing the way Harry’s green eyes widened with genuine surprise before turning her attention to Ron, and the way his cheeks suddenly reddened in embarrassment and disbelief.

“Blimey! What do you mean if it’s really us? Of course it’s us, ‘Mione. We meant to write to you when we arrived two days ago, but just as we arrived, they were throwing us back to your town. There’s been a sudden bout of Measles…”he trailed off, his blue eyes twinkling with warmth as he appraised her frozen stance.

“What is the name of your pet rat?” she shot out the question, still rather suspicious despite how genuine it felt to her. But she couldn’t take any chances—the forest was a very clever one.

“Scabbers, c’mon, it’s freezing out here!” he complained, unsure of when exactly the tense set to her shoulders finally sagged with relief. It was Ron. She would recognize that whine anywhere.

She turned her attention back to Harry despite herself, wanting to believe it was him, but feeling too suspicious of her silent friend to truly let her guard down.

“Harry, what is the name of your pet owl?” She watched his face closely, ignoring Ron as he blubbered and whined for her to quit “being so insufferable”.

“I don’t know why you’re asking us all these questions, ‘Mione. But you know its Hedwig. You’ll talk to us about this, won’t you?” She beamed widely at them before dropping the musket she hadn’t realized she was pointing in their direction, gesturing for them to move with her chin.

“We’ll talk when we get home. It’s cold, and I’d rather not catch my death out here,” they moved eagerly, and Hermione was rather grateful she didn’t have to mess with any creatures this time around.

 

* * *

 

 

Since the scare, Hermione fell into a relatively peaceful routine.

Her friends now visited more often, while also writing twice as often so as to assure her that they were in fact safe, and not trapped in the bowels of hell itself. Or, she mused, it could have been their first instinct after the huge lecture she had given both of them on the way back to her house that evening.

She doubted they would ever forget to write to her again.

She, while enjoying her solitude and reading time, was rather happy to have them in her home as often as possible. They were her guinea pigs for when she decided to experiment with her rather abysmal baking skills, and they would turn to her for any concerns they may have regarding the ill in their village. She was the only healer for miles—and the most adept at that—so the villagers were often turning to her expertise to treat them.

There was hardly a day that she wasn’t sought out for some sort of advice, and if there was, that was the perfect time for her friends to drop in for a visit—their timing was honestly _inhuman_.

So when she heard the familiar jingle of the back window, she was sure that it was going to be another hectic day of treating stubborn—turned compliant after a rather frightening smile—patients. She pulled her white coat and wrapped it around herself before heading towards the window she reserved for clients.

She frowned when instead of a patient, she found only a ripe, and very red, apple.

She was sure it had not been there before. She made to grab it, but paused when she noticed a note tucked underneath it. _Who could have left this?_ With her interest further piqued, she finally grabbed the fruit—quickly snatching the note before a pesky wind could blow it away. She had fallen prey one too many times to the fickleness of the breeze, and she refused to let it steal this mystery from her.

The first thing she noticed upon opening it was the elegant handwriting. It was crisp, with precise loops that made it rather easy for her to read the words.

_Show me your fury,_

_For I have seen you burn—_

_Simmering with passion_

_And unrestrained desire._

She almost crumpled the note in her fist when the words registered.

She did not recognize the writing at all, and she was sure that Ron and Harry were not due for another visit until the following day. They could not have done this, and that was perhaps the most unsettling aspect of all. It could not be the villagers—they rarely left her tokens of their appreciation, and the writing was nowhere near what she’d seen from Ron and Harry.

She wanted to toss the paper into the hearth, as if the paper itself were to come to life at any moment and scald her just as the writer had accused her of doing. _Who the bloody hell wrote this?_ She turned her attention to the apple in her other hand, ignoring the note for the moment.

It was perhaps the most appetizing apple she had ever seen. There was no imprint of previous rough handling. No sign of discoloration that indicated it was overripe. If it had not come with that creepy note, she would have fancied one large bite.

But she was no idiot.

She would clean it first—making sure to wipe away any trace of foul play on red skin before consuming it. She would dissect it as well, to make sure that there were no strange creatures living inside the perfect shell. It was all rather silly, but the note had been rather disconcerting.

It was no secret that she had a temper—her hair made it difficult for anyone within distance of her person not to notice. But to outright demand her to show them her fury? Well, that was not something she typically heard.

So, after poking her head out of the small window for any sign of the person that could have left the note, she shut the small opening. She rarely, if at all, closed this early in the afternoon, but there was just something about the fruit that demanded her attention. She didn’t want to risk forgetting about it without first understanding the “gift”, and so, she turned to the kitchen with the apple in hand.

It was a small kitchen, tucked away at the corner of the large sitting room area. It wasn’t the best looking kitchen, but for her purposes, it worked rather well. It had a working sink, a counter-top spacious enough to grind herbs for medicine, and a small table where she could take her meals. She set the apple in the sink, and immediately set to scrubbing it down. She was sure she lost a significant portion of the soap she used for her own dishes on this one task, but she had to be sure that it was not somehow poisoned.

When her fingers started to prune, she took that as a sign that she had cleaned it enough. She stared at the glistening apple, before dumping it on her counter and extracting a small knife from the drawer beneath it. She cut into it, taking great satisfaction at the _crunch_ it made when the knife cleanly split it into two. She looked into the creamy whiteness inside, almost mesmerized at how someone could have gotten ahold of such a pretty apple.

She should have thrown it away the moment she saw it. But, could she have tossed it out knowing that it would be the last time she’d eat something this sweet till the coming spring? The village had few enough resources this time of the year; she could not afford to simply toss things out just because she did not know who gifted it to her.  For all she knew, it could have been her patients, or even one of the village children trying to thank her for her kindness, even if that sounded impossible.

She was almost ashamed at the way she had reacted, but who could really blame her? Since the loss of her own parents to the hands of the forest, and then the passing of the previous healer that took her in, it made her wary. She eyed the apple before taking a small bite of it, relishing in its sweetness as she chewed.

It tasted unlike any apple she had ever eaten before—there was a tang on her tongue that she did not recognize. It could almost be confused as bitter, but it was not. It left no unpleasant aftertaste in the back of her tongue—it did not overwhelm, nor did it completely fade once the piece was finally consumed. No, it lingered like the chill of a particularly strong breeze. And Hermione could not stop herself from taking another bite and relishing in the taste.

She wasn’t sure when she had started sucking her fingers into her mouth to catch the juices of the fruit, but when she came back to herself, she could not believe that she had eaten it all.

 

* * *

 

 

Since the strange incident with the apple, Hermione could not quite put her finger on just _what_ had her on edge. It had been exactly two weeks since then, and she could not shake the strange feeling that she had set something in motion that she ought to not have. There were no more strange notes or random fruit, but as she waved her good bye to her last patient for the day, she could not silence the whispering in the back of her mind that something was coming. She removed her gloves with practiced ease from her hands, tossing them into the rubbish bin before turning to lock the window for the day.

She froze, nearly taking a step back when there was a man standing in front of it, his hands casually resting on the sill. He was tall, taller than any of the villagers that came by, and unusually pale. He was almost incandescent under the setting sun, and she was unsure if he was human at all with the way his skin glowed beneath it. She swallowed down her nerves, squaring her shoulders when the man did not move at all despite the obvious discomfort on her face. “Can I help you?” she asked, walking brusquely towards the window to show that she would not yield to her own unease. There was something completely wrong about the man, and she was ever so grateful that she kept the musket close on hand in the event that a patient became violent.

The man quirked a brow at her, and Hermione had to inhale deeply in order to settle her nerves when she finally took note of his face. He was perhaps the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and that made her all the more wary. He reminded her too easily of the forest just a short distance away—the darkness in his eyes one that could easily overwhelm anyone that looked too deeply for too long. They appeared placid, but there was a restless energy that coiled around him despite the show of patience he tried to give. His lips were quirked into soft smile that seemed to hint at the danger he presented without giving away too much.

He looked like the devil in the flesh—too otherworldly in his beauty, and too terrifying all the same. He was no ordinary man, of that she was most sure, and the fact that he was _here_ rather than in the forest where he belonged, had her cutting her vision to the musket only a scant inches away from her person before turning her attention to him.

“Did you enjoy the gift?” His smooth voice cut through the silence, softer than she could have reasonably expected. If she had not been prepared for the worst, she may not have even heard him at all. It took her a few seconds to truly digest his question, but when she did, her stomach seemed to drop to her ankles. _Gift?_

_It could not be._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she denied, ignoring the terrifying grin that suddenly bloomed on the stranger’s face. The smile did not fit at all on his face—it was almost too large, too sharp, and too unreal. If she were a lesser woman, she may have caved at the sight of it alone.

“Oh? But I believe that you do. Why don’t you ask me inside? I am sure we can discuss this in more detail over a nice cup of tea.” His voice was silky in quality, taking on a dulcet note as if that alone would be compelling enough to get her to acquiescence.

“I’m not letting you in.” She retorted, her chin lifting high when the man’s eyes sparkled with unrepressed amusement at her expense. _What was so bloody funny?_

“You will.”

She made to retort, but when she saw him lift his left hand from the sill, it was already too late for her to move. With a simple quirk of his fingers, Hermione was flung from where she stood and into the rough wood of the window separating them. She felt the air in her lungs escape from her lungs, and she struggled against the door with all her might despite the strength of the invisible force. She could not lift her hands far enough to reach for the gun just inches from the entrance, and she yelped when she felt fingers settle into her hair, the sensation making her skin crawl as he guided her head till she was face to face with the man.

It was too close, and she felt her lips tremble when she could not look away from him. His eyes were swallowing her own—she felt almost dizzy and lightheaded from the power of it. She tried to breathe despite it, to bring in much needed air to her lungs and to ignore the dark edges creeping into her vision.

“Open the door, and let me in, dearest Hermione,” she tried to close her eyes, but they refused to yield to her mental commands. She was drowning in the darkness, and before she knew it, she was releasing the latch that kept the bottom half of the door closed. She was watching herself through his eyes, and she shouted at herself to look away, to _stop looking into his eyes,_ but it was too late. When the force that held her captive lifted, the door was completely unlocked and gaping open for him.

She watched in horror as he stepped into her home, and he looked to the musket before turning his attention to her. “That may help you with the weaker fae, but it will not save you from me.” He pointed to the musket and she watched as it began to melt into a pool of metal on the living room floor. She turned away from him, cursing the impracticality of the dress she was wearing, as she rushed to the small supply closet down the hall.

If she managed to get a hold of St. John’s wort, she may have a better chance at surviving the night. It would be a mistake to rush outside where he would likely be at his strongest. She _had_ to beat him while he was still inside her home. She just _had_ to.

She could hear his soft footsteps, slow and oozing confidence. She saw the knob to the tiny closet, and felt a genuine smile grace her lips when it opened easily under her hands. She searched for the herb she needed, her fingers trembling.

“There you are.” She froze when she felt a cold breath fan against the nape of her neck. She slowly turned her head, and nearly dropped the jar she was holding when she caught the gleaming look in his eyes. She grit her teeth, and popped the jar open before shoving her fingers inside and thrusting the plant at his face. He moved away from her, careful to avoid the herb as she continued to push forward until she was out of the closet and he was a good few feet away from her.

“You may be powerful, and far stronger than any of the fae I have ever encountered. But not even you can overcome St. John’s wort.” She was pushing forward with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction when his smile smoothed into a neutral expression, and he moved even further back. She had him, and he knew it. “I don’t care if you’re the king of the fae, you will bloody leave my home and never return.” She continued as she continued to push forward until they were both back in the rear living room.

She had won. By the skin of her teeth, but she had won. There was nowhere but out for him to go, and she would make sure that this would be the first and final time he ever got in. He paused in his movement, his back to the open door. She pressed forward, but he stubbornly refused to move any step further.

“Do you think this is the end?” he looked at her intently and she tried to ignore the cold sweat she felt dripping down her back. His expression was vacant—his eyes colder than the chill trickling inside from the gaping back door. It made her nervous—the fact that he stopped moving, the fact that he was not flinching away, the fact that he _would not bloody leave_ , it made her heart beat harder than she ever wanted it to. It was suffocating, the fear and the unease that she felt, but few could ever face a demon and live to tell the tale. And he was most certainly the worst she had ever encountered.

_Who would not be frightened when the devil is standing at their doorstep?_

“You are in no position to threaten me,” she hissed out. Stepping closer and hoping that he would yield. He had to or risk harming himself.

“I can say the same about you.”

There was no warning when he struck. He was on her—his hand seizing the wrist of the hand that held the herb before he twisted it behind her back and forced her against the wall. She hissed from the sharp pain traveling up her arm but refused to release the plant—it was the only defense she had left. “Let go, silly girl.” But she did not, and she could not stop the cry that escaped her lips when he continued to lift until she could hold on no longer, or lose her arm. She dropped the plant, and felt dread settle deep into her bones when the overbearing pressure eased.

It was just her and the faery—there was nothing between his magic and her now.

“Did you think you would win?” she heard him murmur into her ear, his breath ice cold as she tried to stifle the scream she had trapped in the back of her throat. She had to find a way out—to distract him somehow. Hell, she’d take her chances with the outside world—she’d take her chances with the forest than stay here with him. “You almost won,” he purred into her ear, and she could not help herself when she trembled at the sensation of his breath on her ear. His lips were ice, and when his mouth closed around her ear to nip at the sensitive flesh, she clenched her fists to resist the strange sensation.

“Sod off,” she spat between clenched teeth when he laughed gently into her ear. “You _filthy,_ disgust--,” her words were cut off suddenly when he flipped her around and onto her back, his body pressed _too_ close and her wrists caught painfully in one of his own above her head. She glared, and scratched at his hands despite herself, jerking as if she could somehow buck him off of her.

He was as still as a statue—and no matter how much she shouted for him to let her go, and scratched at his hands, his stance did not waver. “Just fucking kill me,” she shouted before being cut off completely by his laughter. It was too high, and almost unhinged in the way it tumbled from his lips. There was nothing poised or collected as his eyes finally caught her own, the maliciousness gleaming in them making her pause completely from her squirming. She refused to look away this time—there was no point in him controlling her now, he had her right where he wanted her. And so she looked, unwilling to show anymore weakness than she had already.

He was completely unhinged, she was sure of it. He was not like any of the fae she had come across that merely played tricks for the sake of it. The evil she found in this man was beyond anything she knew. And it was almost suffocating to be within inches of so much malice, of cruelty, of hatred—to be breathing the same air. It was unthinkable.

“Show me your fury, for I have seen you _burn_ ,” she was trembling in his arms as he spoke the lines of the note left for her. “You are no use to me dead, little healer. No,” he continued as he pressed his cheek to her own, and inhaled the scent of her skin as he did so. “You are the light to the darkness of the evergreen, and it would be a shame to snuff it out.” She hissed when his nose skirted over her pulse, his breath drawing gooseflesh as he continued to scent her. “I am not your plaything!” she snarled at him, jerking her head to sever the connection he had to her neck.

 

“A plaything? No, you’re above that,” he purred as he shoved his knees between her legs, and it dawned on her exactly what he intended. He removed his hand from her wrists, but Hermione still could not move them—the magic kept them firmly pinned above her head as she watched him play with the high neckline of her gown. His fingers were as cold as his lips were, drawing unwanted tingles on the exposed flesh as she tried to settle her nerves, and her breathing.

 

“Y-you will have to take me by force. I will never give in to you willingly.” She forced out through clenched teeth when his finger slid through the fabric, and started to cut down the bodice as if it were paper. She felt the sharpness of his nails as he did away with the underclothing as he went, uncaring and seeming to enjoy the flush that bloomed from her cheeks and down her neck. There was hardly any sound to indicate how easily he was exposing her to the chill of the air—it was as if he were cutting through butter rather than cloth.

 

“Force? Does the idea excite you? Is that something humans indulge in?” he teased, a cruel smile on his lips as he took in the shocked expression on Hermione’s face. She sputtered, shock draining the little color on her face before her expression twisted into one of disgust. “Go bloody fuck yourself,” she spat, jerking fiercely in her invisible restraints. She did not flinch when he cut the sleeves last—feeling the rest of the fabric pool at her feet and expose her completely to his gaze. No, she would not show weakness. She glared into his eyes with as much hatred as she could muster, hoping that with the force of it alone he would combust.

 

But it did no such thing—the creature stood tall before her, and swallowed her with his gaze. His eyes burned her like a brand, leaving no inch untouched as he eyed the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the plumpness of her stomach, and the swell of her hips. She felt like prey—the mouse beneath the gaze of a hungry snake. She could not stop the way her heart rushed much needed blood through her veins and the way her vision sharpened with the quick pulse of adrenaline. She was in suspense, and every second that he simply watched her made the sensation all the worse.

 

“I do not need to take you by force.”

 

She felt her heart about to come up her throat when he pressed ever closer, his body enveloping her own fragile and human one. “Not when you _will_ yield, little lioness.” She gasped when he touched the skin above her collarbone, the cold searing deep into flesh and bone. It tingled and burned her—it was unlike anything she had experienced with previous paramours, with her own hand, and she tried to shy away from it. She tried to escape it, but he pressed closer yet, gliding his hand even lower to her breasts.

 

“Stop.” She said firmly, biting hard on her lip to stop the whine that wanted to escape her lips. She was not going to beg.

 

He did not stop.

 

He pressed his fingers to the soft peaks of her breasts, the sensation drawing a sharp breath from her lips as he simply touched them. He did not pull, or rub her more firmly—he pet her gently as if she were something to be cherished— _to be worshipped_. She could not bear to look at him, but somehow she managed to glance at his face. To look at the man, and spit at his face while she did so. His touch did not stop, but she noted the way his jaw twitched, and how, her smug expression made something savage swim within his eyes. She didn’t want him to be gentle—to treat her as if she were a long lost lover. She was not willing, and she would make sure to let him know it.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” she cursed. She was not prepared when his knee pressed hard into the juncture between her legs, the sensation too much. He watched her, and she glared into his eyes as she squirmed and tried to relieve some of the pressure by rising to her the tip of her toes. But he did not stop, he pressed until she was clenching her teeth from the pain—and pressed even more when she closed her eyes. _Too much. It was too much._

 

“Does it hurt, little healer? I can make you burn for me, or simply _burn_.” He whispered into her ear. She ignored the heat that came with the steel of his voice, unwilling to pursue the thought any more than was necessary. She was flushed red, and when his lips sucked the corner of her ear into his mouth, she felt her insides clench uncomfortably. He lessened the unbearable pressure between her legs, but his lips never left her.

 

She felt him at her throat, licking over her carotid vein as the threat that it was. He could bite her throat and let her bleed out on the living room floor if he so desired. He could hurt her in ways unimaginable to her—and it did nothing to lessen the burning on her skin.

 

_What is wrong with her? What has he done?_

“W-what have you done to me?” She gasped out when his teeth clenched down on her shoulder. She felt her knees tremble with the exertion of keeping herself up as he continued to layer her with different gradients of sensation along her flesh. He ignored her question, and lowered himself to her breasts where his breath was currently wreaking havoc on the sensitive nubs. She had never been sensitive there—never been one to lose herself so readily to the pressing urge of pleasure.

 

She was not herself at all.

 

She moaned when his lips closed around one of the peaks, the ice of his mouth making her skin break out in gooseflesh as she writhed beneath his mouth. He was relentless, no longer acting on the pretense of gentleness—she felt his teeth clenching around her, and she could not help the desperate sound that escaped her throat. She was drowning in his touch—the confusing feelings of hot and cold.

 

It hurt—there was no denying the pain as he pulled her nipple into his mouth and pulled back until her upper body followed. But the heat—the heat silenced the screaming of her rationality. It quieted her fears and her concerns, and she gave in to him. She splayed her legs when he clenched his teeth again, the sharp pain drawing a husky sound from her lips as she tried to gather some self-control. To reason why this was _so_ wrong.

 

But nothing readily came to mind.

 

She could feel him between her legs, and she urged him with a desperation she knew little of. She lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, uncaring of the pain in her nipples, of the danger the man presented—she _wanted_.

 

“Y-you,” she groaned out, as she rubbed against his hardness, enjoying the way it pressed just _right_ against her clit. “p-piece of shite,” she finished, and sighed when his mouth left her abused nipple. She watched him with hooded eyes, and parted lips—the haze of her mind keeping the panic and the disgust at bay as he untangled her legs from around his hips, and dropped to his knees between her legs.

 

There was a brief moment of clarity, before his lips pressed against her cunt. She moaned, the ice of his tongue rubbing against her clit until all that came were strangled cries and shouts. He held her firm despite her thrashing—unable to stop the quick flick of his tongue as he teased and forced unbearable pleasure on the sensitive nub. She could not breathe—she threw her head back and felt the sharp sting of her head meeting the wall as she tried to control herself. She was trembling, and the heat pooling into her center did nothing to relieve her as she felt an unbearable pressure build inside her.

 

“I-I can’t.”

 

If he were not holding on to her, her legs would have already collapsed. She was lost—her vision darkening at the edges as he continued to lick and suck her until there was little for her to think on—little for her to recall and to assess. “S-stop,” she tried to beg, to make the burning and the ache stop. But he did not listen—he merely watched her from between her legs as she edged closer to oblivion. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, and she shut her eyes tightly to reign in the fraying corners of her vision—to silence the screaming voice of rationality begging her to fight tooth and nail for control.

 

But she could not, and she screamed when her orgasm came swiftly and with little preparation when he closed his teeth around her. Her insides were writhing, and the pressure was unbearable—she could feel his teeth against her softness, prying her open in search of secrets she herself did not know of. She felt the little energy she had leave her—her body collapsing entirely when she was freed of the invisible restraints that held her up. She was sure if it were not for him, she would have landed on the ground without fail.

 

“M-monster.” The words left her lips easily enough despite the scratchiness at the back her throat—despite the foreign brittle quality to her voice and the trembling of her lips. He enveloped her in his arms, his cheek resting against her own as she lay there—unable to move save to breathe. It felt as if he were sucking the life out of her through contact alone—he was an ice block and she was trembling from the sensation of him across her naked skin. She did not want to think about what it would be like if he were as naked as she.

 

“Lord Voldemort. Though you may find them to be an interchangeable term.”

 

She did not react despite the insistence of her own mind to bloody move. It came as no surprise to know who this being was, but then, it was a surprise. He was powerful—enough to overwhelm her defenses entirely. That she had not thought of _who_ it had been made her want to scream out in frustration rather than fear. She had lost, long before he had even come for her—she had eaten his fruit. She had been careless; entirely foolish and there was no way to get out of this mess.

 

She had eaten the food of the fae. And he had come to take her back.

 

He chuckled into her ear, and tucked a stray curl into the back of her ear as if she were something amusing. “I’ll get out, just you wait.” She muttered into his throat—her voice low, but she knew that he heard her clearly.

 

“I look forward to it.”


	6. Wood Nymph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: T--bordering M.  
> Warnings: Violence
> 
> I have had this on my computer for a while. I could not decide how it is that I wanted this to go and simply left it as it was. I edited this one down, but there will most likely still be errors in here to be found.
> 
> I am not sure if I will continue this one in the future. But I feel that it may, the story does not feel complete to me yet.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy, and please share your thoughts in the comments section.

There was something in the air that made her want to scratch at her skin. The smoke was pervasive—scorching the earth with the acrid smell of burnt flesh and dirt. It was a world of nightmares and mayhem—a paradise for the damned.

She could see the bodies of her classmates scattered around the earth like snow—unmoving and unfeeling to the battle that still warred on despite the unlikeliness of their success.

They had lost, but she did not succumb to the growing despair that wanted to settle into her chest. It clawed and begged for release—it cried for a moment of a respite. A moment for her to rest and remember the people she had lost, and will lose. But instead, she breathed in the smoke and the stench of death into her lungs.

There was no time to wallow in her sorrow—to let the burning in her eyes overtake her sight when she was in the middle of a war.

She ducked when a flash of green almost struck her—the hairs on her arms tingling unpleasantly as she ran through the singed grass beneath her feet, launching her own spells into the fray.

Harry and Ron were dead. The thought was enough to cripple her resolve, but she steeled herself once more. No, she could not let it consume her now. She was still alive. She was the only one left to fix the nightmare that seemed more real than the moments before the battle had started.

She could not mourn them now—she needed to be strong for those that were still alive. There was too much at stake, she knew. She had the burden now—she cannot just let them _die_ in vain.

“Everyone, run!” She shouted, hoping that the few survivors could hear her through the screaming and the blasts of powerful magic.

She swerved into the forbidden forest when another green spell was shot at her—sighing in relief when it narrowly missed her and struck the tree where her head had been mere seconds before. She ran through with her wand tightly in her grasp—her mind racing for some sort of plan to get those that followed a chance at survival.

The Dark Lord’s army had been ordered to capture the pure—to salvage what remained of the magical community rather than to decimate them underneath the heel of his foot. She knew well that she did not count under that command.

There would be no mercy for the likes of her.

She tucked herself behind the first tree she saw, her wand now pressed tightly to her chest as she listened for her pursuers to pass through. She remained still behind the tree—eyes narrowed and lips pursed in concentration as she waited—hearing their footsteps fade, but not daring to leave her hiding spot just yet.

When no sound came, she moved away from where she had concealed herself—moving quickly, but quietly so as not to draw any attention to herself. Her heart was beating rapidly, but her face revealed none of the panic that bubbled inches underneath her flesh.

She exhaled deeply to calm her nerves, and concentrated on the task at hand. She could not lose her cool now, she was the last dying ember to a resistance that had been crushed so suddenly and unexpectedly.

So she trekked on, her ears trained for the sound of any potential Death Eater that could come upon her at any time. She did not spend months on the run with Harry and Ron for nothing—she would not fail.

She _could_ not fail.

Her breath caught when she felt the sudden weight of dark magic suffocate her. It washed over her—tainting the cleanliness of the air with decay and death. The miasma was nothing she had ever experienced before—it was heavier than the smoke of a forest fire, of the exhaust from the engines of an old car.

It was death, coming to claim his spoils. To smite all that dared to resist his decree, she was convinced.

But she resisted the temptation to run, choosing instead to move quietly. She walked despite the desire to flee and to succumb to the panic—to allow the fear to coil in her stomach and settle into the marrow of her bones. She could never forgive herself if she did just that—what would Harry or Ron think if she ran with her tail tucked between her legs?

What would become of the world if she gave in? She could not stomach the thought of it—

So she pushed forward—listened to the silence of the forest for the creatures that lurked here, listened for the steps of possible pursuers, listened for the sound of any possible spells that could be lunged at her.

But then, she heard the rustling of the leaves.

It was a soft sound, slightly louder than her own breathing. A faint sound that she would have missed had she not been concentrating so hard on the world around her.

Her fingers clenched automatically on her wand, repressing the instinct in her blood that begged her to _run._ There was someone there out there with her, there was no mistaking it. But not just _any_ someone. She grimaced when the weight of dark, oppressive, magic settled onto her skin like another layer of flesh. There was only one person that had such a presence.

The monster himself was hunting for her, and it would be a mistake to run now.

If she ran, she knew he would ultimately chase after her like some thirsty blood hound. He lived for the chase—they _all_ did. His minions are a reflection of the monster himself after all.

She, repressing the desire to run, continued to move quietly, her steps light and careful on the ground. He could not have spotted her, could her? He would have already shot her down had discovered her, but she could not shake the thought that he was entirely aware that she was there. An ant—or perhaps, a rat that he was debating how to hunt.

She froze suddenly when she felt the air begin to _move._ Her heart felt like it had stopped altogether—the little composure she had crumbling when she heard his voice break the heavy silence.

“You cannot hide from me, _Hermione Jean Granger_.”

She felt the fear squirming in her stomach dig its claws into her mind. She felt it seize her lungs—a more oppressive weight than even the filthy magic of the monster lurking in the darkness on her skin.

Her cover was completely blown, but it would still be a mistake for her to run. It was all a game—there was no doubt that it was. He could have struck her down, but instead, he was watching her from wherever it was that he was hidden. It was like the game of hide and seek that she would play with her mum and dad as a child, but far more vicious and _real._

“We do not have all night, girl.”

His voice had come closer this time, the hiss grating on her already fraying nerves.

She had to decide now—die now if she refused to play or possibly die later, if she managed to beat him. Her odds were not favorable—even worse than the odds Harry had.

But she had everything to lose—she could not just let herself take the easy path. There was too much at stake—she saw the faces of the few that had managed to survive the battle, and she steeled her resolve. She had to play along—any sort of odds, no matter how unfavorable were better than no odds at all.

She squared her shoulders, releasing the breath she had not realized she was holding, before casting another glance at the forest surrounding her. She saw nothing. Absolutely nothing.

And so, she ran.


	7. Red Poppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated: G.
> 
> This is a rite of passage, I believe, in this particular ship. I had this story on my computer for a while and could not find a way to end it. It felt appropriate where I ended it and thus, I share it with you all. I hope you enjoy and please leave comments with your thoughts. This is also not Beta'd, so please watch for typos.

She felt the ground shake beneath her feet—something that should have frightened her into a state of panic, but didn’t.

The ground had never done that before—never split apart like a piece of fabric that was pulled too taut in two different directions. It was ugly, but Hermione could not look away at the ruin beneath her. The edges were crumbling inwards as if they were meant to let something out from beneath the earth, and she could not help but wonder if this was something her mother could have done. Her mother was always experimenting with new flowers—with new life—so perhaps, what would come out from beneath her feet would not be so bad?

But even still, she should be shaking with the force of the world tearing apart. She should feel her heart race in time with panicked breaths, but she did not feel anything at all. Could it be her curiosity that had her rooted to the spot? Or perhaps, she surmised, could it be the beautiful flower she had trapped beneath her fingers? The petals felt finer than any silk dress she owned—than even the sheer golden fabric encasing her body.

Maybe it was that which stilled her movements, calmed her heart, and soothed the hysteria that she should truly be feeling at the sight.

Because when a creature that resembled a mangled horse was spit from the ground, she could only stare.

She was frozen, unable to will her limbs to move at all when a gloved hand reached out to her, snatching the very same hand that clenched tightly around the fragile bloom.

The hand encased her own—trapped it just as her own hand had grabbed the bright flower. It should have scared her to become prey, but she was thunderstruck by the jarring image of something so _ugly_ breaking through the earth.

It could have once been a horse, with its long equine stature. But it most definitely was not. It was skeletal and the color of a fresh bruise, with claws that more likely belonged to the monsters in the stories her mother would tell her than in the beautiful meadow she wandered into. It made her eyes water—not in sadness or in fear, she could hardly feel anything except benign curiosity—before she felt the hand tug her up from her kneeling position. The motion allowed her a moment to finally break her gaze from the destitute creature, and to the man sitting regally atop it.

She sucked her breath through her teeth, feeling some of the dull edges of her vision clear, and the numbness in her body fade at the sight. He was a force to be reckoned with—not as ugly or as terrifying as the creature nestled between his legs, but so _beautiful_ that it hurt to look. She felt a pain she had never experienced before, a heaviness settling in her chest as if she were choking on water. She wanted to look away, but couldn’t do it. She was enraptured as much as she was repelled by the sight.

His eyes were dark, framed by black locks that seemed to mirror the heaviness weighing at her chest. It left her breathless, and she kept tracing his skin with her eyes as if it would somehow relieve the ache burrowed inside her.

“Why?” The words sounding breathier than she intended as she regarded the man with eyes that seemed to freeze her as easily as they burned her. They were black, unlike anything she had ever come across in her dalliances in the meadow, and that both frightened and intrigued her.

The grip on her hand tightened momentarily, the only warning she received, before it tugged at her until she was pressed into his body—trapped between the head of the horse-like creature and his arms. He did not hesitate before he took the reins of the creature beneath them, before plunging them into the dark maw below.

She wanted to struggle—to put up some sort of fight. There was something wrong with this entire situation—there was something wrong with _her_ , but she could do nothing. She watched the darkness wrap around her tightly, and with it, a heaviness that pulled her into unconsciousness.

_What has she done?_


	8. Hatred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Mind manipulation.
> 
> Prompt: Tomione + "hatred"
> 
> If you are interested in seeing more drabbles, I encourage you to go on my tumblr and send me a prompt if you have an idea :)

“Is it not to your liking? I would have assumed that the walking encyclopedia of the Golden Trio would be fascinated.” She heard him speak, but did not bother acknowledging his words. There was no point answering to a voice that was all in her head—he wasn’t any more real than any other sentient item, and it would be entirely a mistake to answer now.

She did not bother to tell her friends that he spoke too often to her in her sleep; his messages bleeding in to her waking thoughts when she tried to research. She just wanted to be rid of the bloody thing—silence the too raw words he often said and the doubts he prodded with a calculated eye.

He was not yet a monster in flesh, but he was definitely a beast on the inside.

She could not help feeling bitterness at being saddled with the locket despite the toll it took on everyone else. They looked just as horrid as she did, and likely felt just as shite too. But she just _could not help_ how she hated these moments with Voldemort. Even if this version was much prettier and likely to not be able to truly harm her.

But that was left to be seen. Just because he had yet to physically harm her did not mean a bloody thing.

She heard him sigh in the silence, a page turning in the dark as she stood not too far away from where he sat. He was reclined over an old book, the edges of it uneven and in quite a state of disrepair. From the state of it, Hermione could readily assume that it was a book no soul should be permitted to read.

It did not look as if it belonged in Hogwarts, or even in the private stores of her professors.

It was funnily enough quite the accurate rendition of the Hogwarts library, and it immediately struck her just how often Voldemort had to have come here to have noted each individual crack in the bookshelves just across from her. She had seen them herself in her time in Hogwarts, and that thought did not sit well with her.

She felt the same sense of anger welling up inside her when she noted another similarity between the man in front of her and herself.

It made her want to be sick that she had any shred of similarity with a monster that took pleasure in murdering and pillaging as if he were some beast.

She heard another page turn, the sound of it sharp in the silence as she tried to calm her ire down. She did not need to get so upset so early in the dream sequence. There was plenty of time, and far more offensive comments to be heard. This was nothing and she should know better.

“It marvels me how you judge me for my sins as a child, but think nothing of your own.” Hermione sucked in a sharp breath, staring hard into the bookshelves rather than the man sitting not too far away. “You trap a woman in the war, exploit her for your own ends, and yet, I am the villain.” His voice was mocking and it grated on her nerves.

He always did like to start by highlighting her flaws. She would have been bored had his words not affected her the way they did.

“Miss Rita Skeeter, trapped in a glass prison with no chance of escape. I wonder, did you ever feed her enough when you had her in your care? Did you ever consider that what you were doing was kidnapping? I am almost impressed with the fact that you even got away with it without the censor.” She grit her teeth, but otherwise did not respond.

She should not. She _could_ not. She did not want to open a door she wasn’t sure she would be able to close.

“But what I find most charming is that vindictive streak of yours. It is almost poetic how you left that pathetic pig of a woman to the centaurs.” She shot her gaze to him, noting that he had yet to look away from his book as he spoke.

His hair seemed to look inkier under the shadows of the eaves, the sun having set in this imaginary world and the flames from the sconces doing little to brighten the stagnant room. It warped the comfort she normally felt for the room, creating instead wariness and unease. This whole affair simply stained once fond memories; converting them into negative associations and potentially, nightmares. Not that this was not one already.

She resented this man for what he was doing. Hermione doubted she could ever return to Hogwarts without thinking of these moments. She doubted she could forget the conversations they had about how horrid she was, and how true it actually was. She knew there was nothing light about tossing Umbridge to the Centaurs, or of kidnapping Rita Skeeter for besmirching her reputation to the masses.

She _knew_ there was nothing light about it. But they had been necessary.

“Tell me, do you at all recall in your dreams the way Umbridge screamed? I would imagine she did not scream prettily at all, but it must have been _satisfying._ ” Hermione bit her lip when the man finally stopped reading and turned his complete attention to her. His eyes were red, the swirling of colors in them reminding her easily of blood splattered on floors, of unseeing eyes and demented smiles.

“I would imagine-“ and then he rose from his seat, closing the book before moving around the small table. Hermione did not think to move at all at that precise moment, holding her ground because she was _no_ coward but also sickly curious at just what it was the monster would do.

He had never before done more than speak to her—he hardly ever acknowledged her presence in the physical sense except to look to her. He had never sought her out before. This was different—the way he spoke and the way he moved was different.

Hell, the flickering of the sconces at the walls emphasized such differences too readily for her liking.

“-that you felt powerful, then. Clever and _very_ powerful hearing the woman that humiliated you begging.” She watched him as he finally stopped a foot away from her, his height making her crane her neck to keep a close eye on his face.

He was so beautiful it hurt to look. It was almost funny that the most powerful wizard since Grindlewald could be so handsome and shed it all for power and fear. Everyone knows that honey did a more effective job. Hermione supposes that after the fifth Horcrux that ruling with charm became impossible.

His eyes were the single thing that set him apart from an otherwise mortal man. A beautiful one, but a man all the same. His hair was immaculately groomed, not a single hair out of place save for the one curl on his forehead. His skin was fair, almost milky now that she bothered to look at him more closely. It was smooth, even, the kind of skin Hermione remembered Lavender and Pavarti would gush about in the rooms.

Hermione still had not spoken, had _never_ spoken since she had started sharing the locket with her friends. She found it satisfying to know that in some way she was above this man, above the awful words he spoke and disgusting images he liked to paint for her.

She was not unaffected, Hermione would be lying to herself if she said that. Her breaths were coming much too quickly and her skin felt too itchy for her to not be. She was burning with her desire to speak—to let go of her anger for a moment, but she refrained from doing it. She was not unaffected, but she definitely had restraint.

She was never good at controlling her anger, but she would do it now. If only just to refuse the monster from getting under her flesh. From getting the reaction he wanted from her.

“I wonder, what will get you to speak. This game is no fun at all without active participation.” He spoke, but there was something in his eyes that did not sit well at all. She reigned her panic in, composing herself into a mask of disgust as she watched how Riddle stepped into the foot of space between them.

It was as if he had sucked out all the air in the room with the motion—the camel’s back snapping when Hermione could not help but finally step back.

She did not know what she would do if he got too close.

He was _already_ too bloody close.

“Should I torture you? Your screams would be delightful, but it is not _quite_ what I am seeking.” She tried to remain composed, but he followed her movements until he practically crowded her into the shelf behind her. The wood pressed uncomfortably to her back, but Hermione did not think at all about the discomfort or the way the wood hit just precisely into the small of her back and her shoulder blades.

She was consumed by the vision of a man daring to get too close. To violate her space, and she loathed him entirely for how affected she was.

She could not silence the feelings within coiling for her to do something—to punch and to kick him away. She could not help wanting to scream and shout at him—to curse him with the spells she knew she could do without a wand.

The impulse was strong, but she held it all in. It had been months since this game started and if she had to wait an eternity before she destroyed him and rid herself of this monster, she would. She’d keep her voice locked up tight and her heart hidden away until she could release herself from the chokehold she had on herself.

And then he reached out to her, his fingers alarming close to her cheek before she finally snapped.

“Do _not_ fucking touch me.” She hissed, slapping the hand away rather than running in the one direction she had perfectly available to her. She could have run, she knew, but there was something satisfying in hearing the smack of flesh meeting flesh, of releasing the absolute _loathing_ she felt bubbling inside her.

“I don’t care if you torture me. If you use my bones as a toothpick after your meals. I don’t bloody care, you are _not_ real. You have no body, practically no soul in you to even be much of a threat.” She stepped forward, eyeing the way Voldemort’s lips seemed to quirk into a smirk as he finally thought to step back.

Seemingly giving her her space.

“You are _nothing._ So what if I left Umbridge to the Centaurs, she lived to see the day. She is a member of your bloody order. So what if I trapped Rita Skeeter in a jar? I assure you I kept her in much better care than you or any of your Deatheaters would ever contemplate to.” All she could see was red, unsure if it was from staring into Voldemort’s eyes for so long or from the burning rage coursing through her veins.

She could feel it almost as powerfully as her magic, the coil of it in her gut reminding her that it was there and ready to be used should she need it. It was _hers_ to control, hers to dominate, hers to exploit, and entirely her choice if she wanted to crush the monster before her.

Then Voldemort was laughing, the sound of it a rich baritone that set her nerves further aflame.

She was shocked by how much she wanted to kill him. To see him suffer for his past transgressions.

“There _you_ are. It wasn’t so difficult, was it? I can practically smell the malice in you, girl.” Voldemort stopped moving back, the space between them still too small, but much better than what it had once been before. He was no longer stealing the very air from her lungs, but her throat still felt uncomfortably tight.

“The darkness is there. Sitting within the marrow of your bones. It is a wonder how your friends are so blind not to see how deliciously you let your hatred consume you.” It was like a bucket of ice was dropped on her skin, the chill of it snuffing out the burning rage and all emotion she had allowed to escape from her tightly held prison.

“No!” She shouted, but then he was on her—shoving her into the shelves behind her with a practiced ease that did not nothing to calm her rapidly beating heart, or stifle the dawning realization that she had more in common with the monster than just book smarts.

_Oh merlin, please._

“You hate me. Do not deny that you do. I could see all the pretty images of me broken beyond repair in your mind’s eye. I could see the satisfaction purring in your gaze at the thought of hearing my screams for mercy.”

Hermione was trembling when Riddle pressed his lips to her ear, careful not to touch her at all as he did. She could feel the warmth of his breath there.

“You judge me for my sins, but when will you start judging yourself for your own?” He practically purred the words out, the sound of it making her skin crawl. She was frozen entirely when he laughed then, and all she wanted to do was curl into herself to lick her wounds.

He had finally gotten what he wanted from her. Hermione sincerely hoped they destroyed the locket soon.

She doubted she could take any more of this before she actually snapped and did something she regretted.

“I may not be flesh and blood, but do not _think_ , that I am not real. I am your present—the monster, as you so eloquently put, in your head. But I am not the only one there, and I wonder just how long it will be before it cannot be reined in any longer.”

When she felt his lips against her ear speak the very words she never wanted to hear—she shot awake. Her heart was beating too rapidly and she could not help the tears of frustration that weld up at the corners of her eyes.

He was right.

They needed to destroy the locket _soon._


	9. Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T for implied torture and dark themes.
> 
> Pairing: Hermione Granger/Voldemort.
> 
> And here it is, the first actual Volmione I have ever written in my life lol.

“Tell me something, girl.”

Hermione stiffened, turning her head slowly upwards to regard the creature that had spoken to her. Creature—not man. There was nothing human left in him, and it was completely laughable to think otherwise.

She was on her knees, the delicate skin pressed harshly onto the concrete floor. She had been in this position for merlin knows how long, unable to move because of the heavy magic weighing her down. Voldemort’s magic was so thick that she doubted she even needed the restraints keeping her arms bound behind her back as she kneeled at his feet.

But she supposed, they didn’t want to take any chances with the only remaining member of the Golden Trio.

Hermione was silent, choosing instead to stare at the collar of his robes than at his inhuman face.

“Look at me when I speak to you, girl.” He hissed, the sound of his voice enough to raise the hairs on the nape of her neck. It was what she imagined death would sound like when he finally came for her—finally drew her away from the life of a world where Voldemort won. In a world where muggleborns were taken from their homes, their parents enslaved.

It was deplorable—nothing like what Britain used to be before he savaged it.

She wished she could change everything—she wished she had died at Harry and Ron’s side. It would have been preferable to have been taken with them than to be left alone, to watch the world burn away until nothing that she loved remained.

She did not look up despite the growing chill in the chamber—the magic crushing her body to the floor snapping and sizzling with thinly veiled rage.

“You will _look at me_.” The order was so abrupt that Hermione could not help but snap her eyes to his own. She wished she had not—his eyes were bright red with his fury. It reminded her too readily of spilt blood, of the tortured screams of her friends when they were drained of every single drop. To look into his eyes was to remember the agonizing way her friends had died.

She swallowed hard to stop the bile from climbing up her throat, then. She may have been the only one left, but she would rather die with dignity than without it. It was the only thing she had left—her wand had been taken from her, her books scattered into the wind, and her friends murdered before they could think to destroy more of Voldemort’s Horcruxes.

They did not know what had tipped the snatchers off—how they had been found in a place Hermione had visited only with her parents as a child.

But they were taken, and now, here she was.

He regarded her with a look she did not recognize. It was more unsettling than if the monster had been glaring at her.

“Have you not wondered why I have kept you alive?” He asked after his magic settled, the pressure on her back still heavy, but no longer as oppressive as it had been moments before. His question was unexpected, and it took her a moment to digest just what exactly he had asked. Of course she’d considered why he had kept her alive—it was _the_ thought that had been running through her mind since she had been taken to this hell hole.

“It is strange, is it not?” Hermione could only nod her head stiffly in response, not trusting her voice lest she say something she shouldn’t. She had learned early on that speaking tended to get her into more trouble than it was worth—especially since Voldemort refused to kill her.

The torture was more than she could bear—and although she would much rather be fighting tooth and nail like the Gryffindor she was, this game required a more subtle science. An art she was slowly becoming more proficient in the longer she was kept a prisoner in their midst.

It was laughable that Voldemort would take time from his busy schedule to speak to her. You would think he had better things to do, like run the country to the ground and drag those around him into the fire. But here he was, sitting casually on his throne as he tried to pick her brain for merlin knows what.

She honestly did not understand what his motive was, why he had kept her alive except to throw it in her face that she had lost. It was the most sensible reason she had come up.

“Have you considered why it is so? Why I have held you here otherwise unharmed?” She listened to him speak, taking in the high voice of his to discern some sort of motive from his end. But there was nothing to be found—as she suspected—and his voice did not do much either in clarifying things.

The monster was in a strange mood, and Hermione did not quite know what to do. She was used to his taunts—fully expected those, in fact—but this was unusual. Had the monster finally cracked? She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.

“No.” She offered the words, in hopes that he would not try to drag anymore words out of her. A lie, if she ever heard any, but she had spoken nevertheless. She had all the time in the world to sit in her cell, and think—when she was not being tortured, of course. There was nothing else for her to do, and so she planned and she tried to busy her mind with observations of the deatheaters that passed by her cell when she was not in Voldemort’s less than pleasant company.

It passed the time, and it helped keep her from losing her bloody mind.

“Do not lie to me, mudblood. All that mind of yours does is think. I can see each individual thought like a mist of words in my own mind—can practically taste the words as if it were my own lips speaking them.” She shuddered at the obvious amusement in his tone, uncomfortable with the fact that he could change moods so quickly. It always unsettled her to know that he was in her head, that he was reading her mind now.

It was why she hated meeting his eyes, but the monster gave her no other option but to look.

“…then why bother asking questions you can easily pluck from my mind?” She croaked, her mouth feeling foreign as she shaped the words. Voldemort tilted his head just so as he listened to her speak for the first time in weeks, his eyes blinking slowly as if he were committing the moment to memory.

That was certainly bizarre.

And just as she thought things could not get any stranger, the monster was suddenly laughing. The sound of it so sudden that Hermione could not stop herself from gaping at him. Just what the bloody fuck was going on?

“Why, indeed. I suppose there is something in your mind of interest.” The idea that Voldemort planned to pick her brain did not sit well with her at all. It was a frightening thought—that he was sifting through her memories and her ramblings for something she did not understand.

_Bloody perfect._

“I have only ever destroyed, but the idea of creating something out of the ashes in your thoughts is a fair challenge.” She felt a chill crawl up her spine, the thin slits of his pupils making her more than terrified then.

“Your mind is strong—I can see it from the rigid corners of it now. How long do you think it will take me to break it?” He sounded curious, genuinely interested in what she could possibly say on the matter. She felt like she would rather chew glass than follow along. She would rather kneel silently without pondering on the fact that he planned to break her down until she was no longer the person that she was.

Death would be infinitely more preferable than _this._

“Your will is strong, but everything crumbles beneath the might of Lord Voldemort. I have leveled cities with my wand alone, and you have seen the terror of my power. You will yield, not today, perhaps not next year, but your mind will bend and shape itself to meet my needs.”

She shuddered at the sound, nausea making her empty stomach churn. She felt grateful that she had not been given food yet. She would surely have expelled it all.

“I can see the fear in your mind, as you should _be_.” Voldemort then rose from his throne, Hermione’s gaze now level with the dark fabric of his robes. Her head could lift no further, and she refused to at this point. Voldemort was absolutely mad if he thought she would make this easy.

She would rather die than lose herself—kill herself if need be.

She gasped when he carded his fingers into her wild curls, the sensation of it enough to both disgust and shock her all at once.

“It will only be a matter of time, after all.”

And then his fingers were gone, the magic holding her prisoner dissipating like smoke when he apparated from the room.

He had left her entirely alone in the chamber, but she did not feel alone. His words were still in her head as she tried to stop the tears from fleeing from the corners of her eyes.


	10. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Warnings: Muggle violence
> 
> Prompt: Tomione + Childhood

She wasn’t sure why she had done it, but that hardly mattered at the moment. The whys and the hows to things were simply inconsequential once she had turned her attention away from the interesting book on her lap, and towards the commotion a short distance away. The sight made something clench unpleasantly in her stomach. Her teeth clenched angrily, her jaw practically pressing the crowns into one another at the sight of the older boys picking on Tom. The ten-year old wasn’t necessarily nice to her—he had a sharp tongue and often gave her the cold shoulder when she tried to speak to him.

Hell, she barely even knew the kid. But that did not mean he deserved to be treated like dirt.

These boys were vicious—it was almost as if they had something personally against Tom. She didn’t quite understand it. Of course, she had only been living in the Orphanage for a few months now, spending most of her time at Hogwarts, but in the one summer that she had lived there, she had yet to see Tom do anything to incite this kind of behavior. She had overheard plenty of rumors from the children about his freakishness and the strange events that occurred around him, but after watching the boy closely for weeks, nothing had confirmed such rumors.

Though, even if there was something different about the boy, that did not justify the antics of children Tom’s age, or even the boys her own age.

Because really, what could a sodding ten year old possibly do? Sure, at his age, she had bouts of accidental magic under her record to earn her a lifetime of judgment when she was his age. But as far as she knew, the boy did not have a magical bone in his body.

Normally, she didn’t get involved in the scuffles that occurred between the groups of boys at the Orphanage. It was never serious—never further than a mean comment delivered by the older boys to Tom or vice versa. It was tasteless, but harmless.

But when she saw Billy Stubbs push Tom into ground, a malicious grin on his face, she knew she had had enough.

She was moving before she even realized it, rising from where she’d been sitting with a book curled on her lap, to rush between the other boys and Tom. Billy Stubbs and his group of friends should know better, they clearly outnumbered Tom and were at least four years older. It was completely inappropriate.

The injustice of it made her blood boil.

“What the blood hell do you think you’re doing?” She seethed, uncaring of the fact that the boys were also much larger than her and outnumbered her. She may not have been allowed to use her wand outside of school, but that did not mean she was above getting her hands dirty if the boys tried to her hurt as well.

Her first few weeks had been rough, but she had learned the ropes of how things were done at the Orphanage. They hardly bothered her for books since few of them could even read, but they definitely made attempts to steal her clothes.

But Tom Riddle was entirely unlike her, he had lived here his entire life from what she understood—a fact Mrs. Cole spoke too often of. She was like a broken record with how frquently she talked about the boy; her tone frosty. The woman had never told her exactly why she treated him like he were some sort of diseased animal, but Hermione was perfectly content with not knowing. So far, she had seen nothing amiss and she would not let opinions of impressionable children and the neglectful woman sway her. She could form her own opinions perfectly well, thank you.

“Get out of the way, broomhead. Our business is with that little freak behind you.” Hermione bristled at the name, the mention of her unruly curls enough to bring back memories of her own times in primary school.

“I don’t care what business you have with Tom, you are going to turn your arses around and leave him alone. It’s pathetic, really.” She sniffed, stepping further in their space when Billy and the two other boys behind him she didn’t know, refused to move. She knew it wasn’t intimidating for a dainty girl to threaten them, but it was in that underestimation that she would strike.

“Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it? You’re just some girl.” Billy sneered, and the boys at his back laughed cruelly. She could practically sense the malice there, the desire to hurt apparent in the way they cracked there knuckles and straightened up higher.

As if his height would really make much of a difference. His arrogance would be his mistake.

“If you step aside, we might even overl—” She didn’t let Billy finish his speech, striking before he could curl his calloused hands into fists. He whimpered when her foot smashed hard into his crotch, her eyes narrowing into slits when the boys behind him jumped in to come at her too.

She felt the other boy before she saw him, twisting away from his hands when he tried to grab her by the hair, to kick him in the knee as hard as she could. He went down with a cry, grabbing onto his knee automatically. Before she could narrow her gaze of the last boy, she felt air woosh from her lungs, the other boy’s fist smashing hard into the gut.

She did not scream, instead she hissed out a sharp breath from the pain, before turning a fierce glare at the arsehole. The boy sneered at her, seeming displeased with her show of defiance, and then smashed his foot into her chest. She wheezed, a strange choking sound leaving her lips before landing on her back.

And then the boy was on top of her, trying to pin her down with the weight of his body. She scratched and clawed at him, her mind strangely silent of all her concerns at that precise moment. She had no time to plan—no time to think about the adrenaline pumping through her veins and the fear that normally made its home in the bottom of her gut.

She didn’t know where Tom ended up in the scuffle—but she hoped that the boy was smart enough to have left when he had the chance. She knew this was not the smartest choice from her end, she was not physically prepared to handle three grown boys. But she hadn’t planned things entirely through, hoping that her actions would be enough to get them to back off.

She clenched her teeth around the boy’s forearm then, fighting him tooth and nail when she felt one of the boy’s hands try to choke her. “Y-you wretch!” The boy hissed, and she tried not to laugh at the way the boy’s voice cracked.

And then suddenly, the boy was no longer on her. His crushing weight dissipating like smoke before she realized what had happened.

The boy was screaming, writhing on the ground as if he were being shocked by some invisible force. She stared at him in shock, unsure of what to do when the two boys with him started screaming as well, Billy’s nasally voice the most distinct amongst the cacophony of screams.

It felt like it had gone on for minutes— _hours—_ but it could only have happened in seconds. The boys were twisting in ways that looked beyond unnatural, and Hermione tried to make sense of it, not even bothering to rise from where she had been sitting on the ground.

“Why did you help me?” She heard a soft voice whisper a short distance behind her, so soft that she was surprised she had even heard the words through the stream of screams in the field.

She twisted her by to look, to make sense of what the bloody hell was happening, before catching sight of the boy Billy and his gang had shoved earlier. It seemed that he had not run as she had hoped.

She scrutinized the boy in front of her, noticing immediately that his hand was pointed at the group of boys in front of her. It was unmistakable what it meant, the way his fingers sparked like electricity in his tiny hand. But it didn’t dawn on her the reality of what was happening until his fingers curled, and the screams of the boys behind her seemed to increase.

The boy was a wizard, and one that had frightening control of his magic. Her throat felt dry at the display in front of her, entirely unsure of what to make of this turn of events.

“Why wouldn’t I have? These boys were hurting you. I couldn’t allow it.” She said slowly, forcing her body to rise from the ground when the screams of the boys suddenly stopped.

The silence that came afterwards was deafening.

The boy quirked his head to the side, as if he was trying to make sense of a particularly confounding puzzle. It made her uncomfortable, but she did not let it show. Choosing to watch the pretty, but albeit scrawny-looking boy, instead.

“You hadn’t before.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but she still winced at the weight of his words. He didn’t accuse her of a single thing, but he may as well have. She had, in truth, turned a blind eye to his own suffering and was just as guilty as the boys that preyed on him.

“Y-you’re right about that. I’m sorry.” The apology stumbled easily from her lips, and from the twitch of his lip, it seemed he hadn’t expected that response at all.

 _Strange_.

“You’re not scared of me?” He seemed to compose himself then, smoothing away any discomfort her heartfelt words had brought in him. It was both upsetting and frightening to see how easily he hid himself away—as if she were another threat ready to strike at him when he turned his back.

No one deserved to be treated that way, she fumed. He was just a child, and it was perhaps his magical accidents that had made him a target for the bullies in the first place.

If this was how children treated others they did not understand then they certainly deserved what they’d got. She felt no pity for the whimpering boys still laying weakly on the ground.

“I can do what you can do.” She finally said, before moving slowly to the boy. The boy may have seemed calm, but he reminded her easily of a frightened animal. And she knew, that frightened animals were perhaps the most dangerous of their kind. She did not dare move quickly towards him, sure that if she did, that Tom would retaliate against her abrupt movement.

She’d rather not be hexed, not when her stomach and chest throbbed painfully after her fight with the boys.

It a long silence before she was finally at his side, the boy’s posture unchanged the entire time. He watched her, dark eyes regarding her with an expression she did not quite understand in this context. Curiosity she knew, she had seen it on the faces of the first years starting their first day in Hogwarts.

But the look on young Tom Riddle’s face was something else entirely, something that resembled Ron’s own face when presented with a particularly delicious meal.

He looked _hungry_.

“Prove it.” The boy ordered, the way his small voice cracked betraying his excitement then. She hesitated, unsure if this was a good idea or not considering how sensitive the magical laws were on such things. But surely, she would not face any trouble in the presence of a future wizard? He was almost at the age where his letter would arrive. It would be pretty shoddy to be punished for revealing a crucial aspect of the boy’s identity.

Another minute passed before she finally convinced herself to just do it. Breaking the rules always made her a bit uncomfortable. But the intense guilt for failing to intervene all those times prior, finally convinced her.

She concentrated hard, trying to remember the sensation of fire licking at her skin. It was always difficult to reach, just out of arm’s length when she called for her magic without a wand. But she was tenacious—she knew what it was she wanted her magic to do. She willed it to manifest in her palm, to force rivulets of her magic to the one spot so as not to lose control.

Her magic was fiery and temperamental, a description she felt was rather apt considering what she had done mere moments earlier out of anger. But she reigned it in, forcing it to bend to her will because it was _hers._

She pushed her magic onto palm until finally, there was a tiny flame flickering in her hand. She could feel it pressed against her fingertips, but they did not burn. She felt giddy with her power, enlightened by the fact that it had not taken her as long as it had once before to listen to her mental commands.

When she turned her attention from her hand, to look into the boy that had practically demanded she show him her magic, she froze.

Tom looked completely riveted, his mask of indifference in shambles.

It was perhaps, the first time Hermione had ever seen the boy smile in her short time in the Orphanage. She was struck dumb.

“There are others…like me.” He whispered, staring into her palm with the familiar hungry expression on his face. It was like a shark had scented blood—his dark eyes greedily taking it all in.

“Would you like to talk elsewhere? I understand you must have questions.” She asked, only just recalling that the three boys were still behind her and should most definitely not be privy to their discussion. Last thing she needed was for them to tell Mrs. Cole about what her and Tom discussed—

It would certainly go swimmingly. Knowing the bint, she’d have them both thrown into some mental institution.

Tom’s gaze flickered to the boys behind her before turning it back to her face, a knowing glint in his black eyes.

“Yes.” Tom’s voice was animated then, not entirely trusting, but enough that Hermione felt she could have a positive influence on him yet. She released the breath she did not know she was holding before leading him to where she had been sitting earlier in the afternoon with her book.

She ignored the burning at her back as she moved, proud and satisfied that at least now, Tom was not alone anymore. She would tell him everything he wanted to know and more.

After all, he had her now.


	11. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AN: I don't know why I had this idea. But here it is. I just felt this itch to write something else. Enjoy. Not edited so there may be mistakes. Muggle AU. Tom Riddle is the leader of a gang, Hermione is your average biology student, and Harry is a cop.  
> Rating: T

_Breathe._

She felt the air woosh straight from her lungs at the command, the sound faint as she tried to make sense of where she was. Of why she had not been breathing at all, the familiar tug of her lungs contracting and expanding lost to the cold that pressed against her bones.

 _Breathe_.

And she did, forcing the air through her nose and parted mouth, swallowing the oxygen as if she’d been starved for too long. She could hear the faint sound of gasping ringing in the back of her ears, she could taste bile and salt on her tongue, but all of it mattered little in that second because the voice told her to-

 _Breathe, Hermione_.

She was sucking in air, and then, as if something were lodged in her throat, she was sputtering and coughing from the rush of air. Her eyelids felt as though they weighed a ton, but Hermione forced herself to open her eyes to make out just where she was.

She did not recognize where she was, the room was empty and dark. She could make out the faint outlines of a night desk at the other end of the room, she could make out a flat screen television right above it, and a door. The door was closed, the brown of the wood making it difficult to discern just where she was.

It was in that second that she realized she was laying down, that she was on a soft surface that she had not noticed earlier in her desperate need to breathe.

She clenched her hands around the fabric beneath her, the scratchy surface similar to her own cotton sheets in her flat.

But this was definitely not her flat, this was definitely not any place she has been to before.

Hermione tried to recall just what she was doing before she had woken up with her throat tight and her chest screaming for air. Her lips pursed, her eyebrows furrowed with the exertion.

She remembered darkness. She remembered the sound of her laughter and the feeling of cold beneath her fingertips when she’d been drinking an iced coffee. She remembered the bright green of Harry’s eyes and she remembered the white of his teeth as he smiled at her happily.

She remembered him telling her that he’d been promoted in his division. Hermione felt a soft smile tugging at her mouth before she quickly quelled the gesture, recalling that she was in a strange place with little to no memories.

_How had she gotten here?_

She thought back, ignoring the dull ache that began to pulse to the rhythm of her slow beating heart in her efforts. She was tempted to press her hand to her temple, to quell some of the pain that began to flare to life with the strain, but she refrained. She held onto the sheets for dear life, breaths coming fast and hard as she tried to piece together the disjointed memories.

She remembered bidding Harry a farewell, her coffee cup in hand as she slipped through the open doorway and into the bustling street.

 

She recalled the radiant sun beating across her cheeks, an exasperated huff leaving her lips when she left the cooler air of the café and exposed herself to too hot and humid air. She had purchased a new pair of jeans just that week, wool undergarments tucked underneath to fight against the morning chill.

It had gotten hot in the time she had been chatting with Harry, and Hermione felt pain travel from her temples to her forehead, the feeling like poison coursing through her veins as she forced herself to _think._

She remembered bumping into someone, coffee cup tumbling to the ground and spilling its contents all over the pavement. Hermione’s breath hitched at the memory as if feeling the coffee splatter her jeans a second time, the rush of warmth over her thighs bringing her back to the present.

She was still dressed in her jeans and over-sized T-shirt. The stickiness pressed against her thighs making the fabric colder than the rest of her exposed skin.

_I spilled some coffee after I bumped into someone. What else did I do?_

She remembered hearing a polite voice, the sound like the purr of a revving engine. Hermione recalled how it made her aware in that second that she’d ran into a man that she did not recognize.

She remembered apologizing, and receiving one in return, the feeling of a warm hand clasping onto her shoulder jarring as it was surprising when she turned her gaze from the fallen coffee cup to the darkest eyes she had ever seen.

Black like the night sky without stars to glitter across the horizon, she had thought then.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Hermione jolted, drawn away from her thoughts by the sound of a voice that sounded faintly familiar. A voice, she thought, that sounded an awful like-

“I hope the room is up to your standards. It was quite difficult to bring you here.”

Hermione felt her chest tighten with shock, and fear. It was like being drenched in an icy rainstorm, her eyes shooting out immediately to a shadowed figure standing right by the closed doorway.

_When had he come in?_

Her shoulders shook when she tried to sit up, but found that she could not. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she’d been bedridden for days. She felt her stomach quiver with strain as she slowly lifted herself up, sitting up properly to try to get a better look at the man.

When she finally managed, the silence of the room weighing as heavily as her limbs, she focused her attention back on the shadow. It was no easier to tell who it was than she had before, but she felt marginally better than before. It did not explain the weakness, but Hermione would not think of that.

She was alone with a perfect stranger. She was not in her apartment. She was in the dark. She didn’t know where she bloody was and this person had had something to do with it.

It certainly didn’t help that she couldn’t remember anything at all after she had bumped into someone out front of the café.

“Who are you? Where am I? W-what is going on?” Hermione asked, voice wavering. She felt her heart begin to race rapidly beneath her chest, fingers clenching unconsciously onto the sheets. Her voice echoed in the room as if she’d exclaimed the questions a thousand times, but she paid it no mind.

Her body trembled with the exertion, almost sluggish as she pushed back to lean against the headboard, only just realizing that the soft pressure beneath her was a bed and not some piece of furniture. The man’s presence absorbing all of her attention.

“We have already met before. I had hoped that you would find me memorable. After all, I had been kind enough to purchase you a drink after I had spilled yours.”

Hermione frowned. She couldn’t remember anything after the stranger’s apology, her memories disjointed and fragmented as she forced her aching head to think.

 _Could this man have put something in my drink?_ She thought, noticing just how tall the man was as he stood by the door. His head nearly touched the top of it, and Hermione was reminded in that instant of just how small she was. She was no athlete and she certainly wasn’t tall herself.

_This man was dangerous._

“Though, I can hardly blame you for your confusion. Barbiturates can be quite potent, especially for someone who has never taken any sedatives.”

Then the shadow began to move.

Hermione shuffled back immediately, watching as the shadow crept closer until he was standing near the bed. Her body felt too sluggish when she tried to move, like the haze of the drugs had not yet faded. It certainly explained the heaviness in her limbs and the metallic aftertaste in the back of her tongue, now that she thought more intently on that.

“Should be more careful about accepting drinks from strangers, Hermione. Have your parents not discussed the dangers? Such a shame.”

The hairs on her arms stood on end at the almost light-hearted tone of the man’s voice. He sounded as if this were all a joke, as if they were sitting over tea and crumpets rather than in a strange place. As if he had not just bloody kidnapped her, abducted her in broad daylight and taken her to god knows where.

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from panicking. It would do her no good. Panic could get her killed. She needed to keep a level head.

“W-why?” She asked, her throat tight as she tried to settle her breathing. Her shoulders shook with her distress, but she tried to focus on the way the shadow seemed to cock its head to one side. It looked oddly animalistic, and Hermione tried not to let hysteria bubble over like a failed chemistry experiment.

_Keep it together, Hermione. You can’t survive if you’re losing your mind._

“I have been watching you for some time.” The man said instead, and Hermione inhaled sharply.

_He’s been watching me?_

Hermione had never felt more terrified than in that second. Nothing good ever came out of that sort of confession. This sounded like something straight out of a horror movie rather than reality. But this was not fiction. This was her present.  

The voice whispering for her to breathe earlier was all too real. The weakness in her limbs and the bitterness on her tongue were genuine. None of this was fake, and Hermione didn’t know what to do. She prided herself in her ability to come up with solutions, to prepare even for the most outlandish of situations.

But how did one prepare for this sort of danger? How did one expect to be kidnapped in broad daylight while having a simple cup of coffee with a friend? She knew she needed to keep a level head, but it was becoming more and more difficult the longer she remained in the room.

It was pitch black, her body was slow and practically useless after the drugs. She had to _think_.

“Intelligent. A bit of a loner. Few friends and family in town. It made you quite the target.”

Hermione clenched her fingers into fists when the man closed the bit of space between the bed and himself, hand reaching out to smooth his fingers into her hair.

_Breathe, Hermione._

“College student, quite knowledgeable of the human body. You have the potential to become someone one day.”

Hermione began to hyperventilate when the voice practically purred the words out, his fingers becoming more aggressive and insistent as they glided through her unruly curls. It felt like claws rather than human hands were threading through her hair, but Hermione did not move.

_Inhale, exhale. Keep it together._

“And a friend of the infamous Harry Potter.”

Hermione closed her eyes when the man leaned in, his breath smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and chocolate as it forced its way in through her nostrils. Her shoulders quivered and her teeth bit so hard on the inside of her cheek that she drew blood.

Who was this man? How could this person know so much about her? How could this man have so easily plucked her from the café without anyone else knowing the wiser?

Hermione was a college student, a biology student. She was no one special, although she definitely prided herself on her hard work and tenacity. She had moved a long way from home in order to pursue her future career in medicine, and that was where she had met Ron and Harry.

_Could this be the infamous gang that had been terrorizing London for months now?_

Hermione’s blood ran cold at the thought, horror making her chest too tight. She felt like she was choking, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

_Oh god, could it be?_

Harry had told her some details about his work, how he had been following leads and working mostly on his own to uncover the Death Eaters.

It seemed like instead of her friend finding them, they had found _him_ instead.

Whoever this man was, he was _trouble._ They had to have known she was friends with Harry. It was possibly even the reason why the man knew so much about her at all. It was the only plausible explanation because Harry had no other friends but her and Ron. Harry had no family.

Hermione swallowed before squaring her shoulders. _Then there was only one reason for kidnapping her then,_ Hermione thought.

“I won’t let you hurt him.” She said immediately, even if she was scared witless in that second. She would rather die than let Harry be hurt. It had to be what the man wanted. There was no other reason for abducting her. Harry was sticking his nose in places he shouldn’t be, and now…now this was the retaliation.

After all, she was the only way to get to Harry now that Ron was off in America.

“Oh? I don’t think you are in the position to be making any sort of demands from me.” The man said, humor thick in his voice before his fingers clenched tightly around her hair, pulling on the strands until Hermione grunted with discomfort.

“Fuck you,” Hermione said through clenched teeth when the man yanked her up abruptly by her hair, forcing her trembling limbs up and out of the bed. She tried not to cry out when he hauled her away from the bed and shoved harshly into the door.

She felt the doorknob dig into her lower back, the pressure bringing unshed tears to the corners of her eyes. It was more painful than the dull throb at her temples when she had tried to recall just how she had ended up. It was like a blade was cutting through flesh, except it came in the form of a door knob biting into the sensitive skin of her spine.

“You are going to tell me all that I wish to know about Harry Potter. Or you will find that your stay will become…exceedingly less welcome.”

“I’d rather die than do anything you want,” Hermione seethed, ignoring the frustrated sound the man released and the ache pulsing in time with the blood rushing through her veins.

“You will find that I can be very persuasive…” The man said before the lights suddenly flickered on, and Hermione was nearly blinded by the sudden burst of white.

She closed her eyes immediately, but she’d already been blinded. The curse on the tip of her tongue escaping her as the man slipped an arm around her waist to keep her from collapsing onto the ground. Whatever drug he had used had certainly been powerful, and there was no telling when it was likely to fade. She hoped it was sooner rather than later, she needed all the strength she could get if she was to escape.

Especially when this was a member of the gang Harry was bent on busting.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open after several seconds, and she was immediately struck by the black of the man’s eyes.

_A tempest swallowed in rain, torrents of water spilling from the edges and eroding the life around it._

“Tom…Riddle?”  She said, the name spilling from her lips without thought. It was the name the man had given her when she had bumped into him, when his face was screwed into a mask of apology.

_Ah, so that was how._

A handsome face hiding a monster beneath the veneer. It was the face of an angel, one that had offered to buy her coffee in exchange for the one Hermione had lost.

Hermione felt her lip quiver, eyes wide with dread as the memories exploded behind the back of her eyes like fireworks.

She saw herself return to the café with the man leading the way, his arm gesturing for her to sit while he purchased her another iced coffee. She remembered asking about his life, and he, returning questions of his own.

He had looked so honest and handsome underneath the natural sunlight trickling through the café. Her back to the window panes as they chatted for some time before he left to grab their drinks.

 _How could I have been so stupid?_ Hermione thought faintly, her body shaking but unable to move. Her fear and her desire to escape was curbed by the drugs, by the concoction he had given to her and she had sipped like some clueless idiot.

She stared into his handsome face, horrified by the black in his eyes and smooth, pale skin.

How could she have made such a mistake?

And then the Riddle smiled, eyes glittering with icy humor as his lips stretched into an almost painful grin. Hermione cringed, unable to help herself. He looked demonic.

“The one and only. Now then, about Harry Potter…” Riddle said as he tightened his grip on her hair and waist. Hermione could not help but think of a boa constrictor crushing its prey in that instance, of sharp fangs hidden underneath rosy lips.

“I believe there is _much_ for us to discuss.”


	12. Seafoam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short drabble I felt the need to write.
> 
> Rating: G  
> Warnings: Tom's general creepiness

Seafoam

“How did you trap the ocean in your eyes?” She asked, too curious to stop the question before she had said it. 

Her reaction was immediate.

Shock quickly eroded curiosity. Burning and eating away at the innocent emotion like wood in a lit pyre. She couldn’t believe herself. What had she been  _thinking?_

It was undeniable that she hadn’t been. That the boy, that their idle conversation had made her  _too_ comfortable in his presence. Enough so that she had made the mistake of speaking her mind.

But rather than panic as every rational thought within her urged to, she bit the inside of her cheek and screwed her lips into a pleased grin. As if it had been her intention in the first place to ask that ridiculous question.

The boy tilted his head to one side. He regarded her curiously, the bright blue of his irises enough to make her stomach twist unpleasantly. A reminder that,  _yes_ , as beautiful as the ocean was, as lovely as it could be when lounging on pure, white sand, the ocean could easily turn on you.

The blues and greens could transform into darkness. Smooth waters could explode violently, as if its ire could no longer be contained within its depths.

It was several seconds before the boy, eyes still gazing unflinchingly into her own, spoke. 

It was a soft sound. Though it would be a mistake for her to assume that this meant weakness. No. It was gentle, warm even, but it cut through the silence like a harpoon through tumultuous waters. Echoed like the pricks of icy droplets beating against her window.

“The same way a shark chooses its prey.”

_What?_

Her confusion must have shown on her face, because almost a second after he had finished speaking, he leaned forward to press his hands atop her own on her lap.

She tried not to flinch. Even when his frigid fingers practically burned through the thick layers of her robes.

Their faces were inches apart, and Hermione could do nothing but gaze into those eyes. 

_Eyes like sapphires that glimmered beneath the setting sun. The eyes of a monster, of a killer to be. A gaze that hid secrets that only few knew, that no one, not even his most loyal followers, could learn._

Hermione swallowed, unable to do much else than watch as the corner of his lip quirked into a soft, beatific smile.

“ _Patiently.”_


	13. Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Tension
> 
> Just another drabble. It seems like I have just been in the mood for them. It's been some time.

"Ah, Miss Granger, there you are.”

She jolted, unsure of when he had arrived. Of how he had managed to penetrate the inner sanctum of  _her_ library when she had been none the wiser. She hadn’t heard a single step nor the rustling of robes as one passed through the endless rows of books.

It was deathly silent, and yet, somehow, he had gotten in. 

“Get out.” She bit out, temper flaring when instead of the familiar sound of footsteps peppering against stone; indicating that he had at least listened to her request, there was absolute silence. 

_Prick._

She didn’t make the mistake of assuming he wasn’t there. Not when his eyes were boring into the back of her head, and practically singed the ends of her hair with its intensity. 

_Just ignore him. He’ll leave on his own once he realizes you won’t give him the time of day._

Hermione heaved a deep breath and focused on the parchment in front of her. There were mounds of books all around her on the table, towering above her own head in spades. It looked like she’d erected several towers on all fronts, and Hermione was almost grateful that she couldn’t exactly see the boy.

It was both a blessing and a curse, but in that moment, she’d take just about every opportunity to be free of this plague. She already had to deal with him in classes. It was completely unnecessary that he had to appear,  _uninvited_ , in her safe space as well.

Sure, he wasn’t exactly unpleasant to be around. He was academically-inclined enough to hold her attention. But just, something about him made her wary. A reality she had been too blind to see; enamored, just as everyone else, by his charming facade. 

His smile was too perfect. His hair too impeccably combed and parted to one side. His skin too smooth and pristine.

_Eyes that were unfathomably deep, that hid secrets not even she knew._

Horrors that she never would have guessed existed if she hadn’t stumbled upon them by accident one evening. 

Tom Riddle. The perfect, kind, and amiable Slytherin Prefect was not what he seemed. 

And she was doing a terrible job of concealing the fact that she knew. She had always been on amicable terms with the boy before. But now, she couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with him.

Not when she  _knew_ what he had done to one of the Slytherin boys in an alcove on the second floor. Not when she’d seen a smile so sharp that it could cut through sinew, not when she had seen eyes so cold she had felt the chill to the marrow of her bones.

He hadn’t even been looking at her then, and that was the most terrifying fact of the whole thing.

“I wanted to have a word, Miss Granger.” 

Dread curled in her stomach when the voice, rather than originate from the entrance of her niche, came from behind her. 

Her fingers tightened imperceptibly around her quill, but she did not turn her head to regard him. She didn’t dare when she had no idea what her face looked like in that moment. Not when she was trying her best to contain the panic bubbling beneath her skin like boiling water in a kettle.

“Well, go on then. I don’t have all day.” She snapped, nerves screaming when a hand pressed against the table just shy of her left arm. 

_When had he gotten so close?_

Hermione wanted nothing more than to snatch her arm back, afraid that if he touched her, even on accident, that he’d somehow find out that she  _knew_. 

_That rather than an angel, with beautiful white teeth and gleaming black eyes, he was evil incarnate._

The irony of the entire thing did not escape her.

“Did I do something to offend you? You’ve been…acting rather strangely.” Tom said, contrite and…uncertain. His tone was the perfect blend of the two emotions. 

His act was impeccable. Polished and refined. Manipulation was an art, and Hermione did not doubt that he had mastered it. 

He had fooled everyone, including herself, and she wasn’t certain which of these facts was most repugnant to her. 

Hermione forced a smile she didn’t mean on her lips. Mourning the fact that she had to turn and address him if they were going to speak. 

How she would come up with a convincing enough act when she was a horrid liar, well. She’d think of something. The boy had given her little choice but to.

“Personal matters, at home. Nothing you need to concern yourself with.” 

The lie sounded convincing enough. There was  _some_ grain of truth to it. She did have personal issues at home, with her mother ill and her father watching over her in the hospital.

He didn’t need to know that the “illness” was a severe case of food poisoning and not something fatal, however.

And then she turned round to face him, certain that her face, although tense, would be enough to get her through this interaction. When one had a loved one, didn’t they look strained? Uncomfortable when discussing them? 

It was the perfect excuse to her discomfort. 

Riddle was standing at her side, lips turned down. There was a touch of concern in his eyes, but Hermione was not convinced in the least. Not when those very eyes could empty of all humanity within a fraction of a second.

She had seen it, and now there was no way to pretend that she hadn’t.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, and Hermione took a deep inhale when his eyes bore into her own. 

Her fingers did not release their vice-like grip on the quill, and his eyes briefly glanced at her hand. Observing,  _always observing_ , how her knuckles were white with how hard she was working to keep the unease from off her expression.

_Relax, Hermione. He doesn’t know. He can’t know._

“If there is anything you need, anything at all, please do not hesitate to reach out to me.”  

Hermione’s heart stuttered in her chest when his hand suddenly found hers. His touch was so cold that she couldn’t stop herself from jumping, couldn’t stop her eyes from widening in shock when he gently coaxed her hand to release her death grip on her quill. 

She didn’t dare speak. 

Even with a deep frown on his face, and brows knit together in apology, Hermione had never felt more intimidated in her life. 

She hated it.

“I’ve been told I can be an excellent friend. I hope you can find one in me.”

The silent threat did not go unnoticed. 

After a beat, Hermione finally nodded, fingers almost numb in Riddle’s cold grip. It leached at all the warmth there, as if he were drinking straight from her essence to warm an arctic void within his gut.

But nothing beat the ice that shot through her veins when Riddle suddenly smiled at her.

It was sweet and charming. The kind that made cheeks flame with flattery and embarrassment. A smile she was all too familiar with, had seen on more than one occasion on the face of this handsome boy.

It didn’t reach his eyes, and Hermione’s breath nearly stopped when his grip tightened slightly on her hand before letting it go. 

“Until later,  _Hermione_.” 

Then he was gone. The only evidence that he had been there at all, the ice rushing through her veins. Both horrified and unnerved that, somehow, he had found out that she knew.

That she had unwittingly uncovered something she shouldn’t have.

Hermione did not know how long she stared at the corner he’d turned through. It could have easily been seconds or hours. There was no way for her to tell, not when he’d gone out of his way to approach her and threaten her.

Subtly, of course, but a threat all the same.

The promise, the subtle way that he regarded her, as overwhelming as the sound of her own name on his tongue.


	14. Bedtime Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G  
> Warnings: Tom being creepy.

 

“Are monsters real?” 

She knew the answer before he stopped reading, before he grabbed a bookmark from the desk and slipped it inside the heavy tome. He closed the book, and Hermione tried not to shift her feet when he settled the full brunt of his gaze on her. 

There was nothing malicious in those depths. Nothing monstrous or haunting. Unlike the stories her mum would tell her about boogeymen and creatures waiting to grab her ankles. Their claws poised and ready to snatch her from underneath her bed.

Still, there was something about the darkness swirling in the boy’s eyes that always made her nervous. It always had, even after years of living with him. 

But that was nothing new. Her adopted brother had always been strange. Older by only four years, but still someone she respected as much as she dreaded. He always found a way to make her uncomfortable. Though how he managed without saying anything rude or untoward was still a mystery.

Though, in spite of these flaws,Tom was still well-behaved. Kind, even when Hermione was certain he didn’t have to be. Incredibly smart, a person whose achievements she admired. A person she wanted to be like, even if he made her skin crawl at times with how he acted around her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

It made her want to impress him. Because he was just so smart. His brain fascinated her, made her want to pull apart the flaps and see for herself what was hidden inside. She couldn’t help it, really. Her parents just loved  _him_ , and teachers talked so nicely about him that she herself couldn’t find it within her to dislike him.

Against her better judgment, no less.

“No, little sister. They aren’t.” He said after a moment, his eyes gleaming brightly under the incandescent desk lamp. “They are stories meant to deter us from misbehaving.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed.

She didn’t know what the word deter meant. It hadn’t been in any of the books her mum had gotten her. It sounded advanced. 

She didn’t want to ask Tom what it meant. It would show him that she wasn’t as bright as her teachers professed she was. It would make her look  _dumb_  in front of her brother. 

That was the last thing she wanted.

“Oh.” 

It was the only response she could think of. She could piece the phrase together to mean that the tales of monsters were supposed to scare her and make her behave. But something about the way he was looking at her made her hesitate.

He seemed to be watching her closely, as if he were truly seeing her for the first time. 

She had always wanted her brother to notice her. He was always distant, even when living in the same house. Always far away, his mind seemingly adrift, lost in a world she could not follow. 

But in that second, Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted the attention.

He looked…kind of scary.

“But people are much scarier than monsters.” He said, and Hermione’s stomach dropped at the way the corner of his lip lifted in a soft smile.

It was meant to be comforting, but it made her skin itch.

“Worse, in fact, than any of those children’s books you will ever read.” 

Hermione flushed with embarrassment at the way his mouth twisted,  _sharp and pointed_ at the word “children.” His scorn was like a slap to the face because she herself was a  _child._ Did that then mean that he found her repulsive? An embarrassment?

She didn’t like it.

She wanted to leave, but couldn’t find the courage to. He was looking at her and although that wasn’t a physical restraint, it certainly felt like one. She was rooted in place. His excited expression gave her little choice.

“Because monsters can be  _seen_.” He continued, seemingly catching on to the irritation on her face. “They are grotesque. Ugly. Something you could spot without having to try at all.”

Hermione nodded slowly, ignoring the fact that she didn’t know what “grotesque” meant.

“With people, you don’t know what you’ll get. The most beautiful man, with the sweetest smile and kindest gaze, could be the monster mum has warned you of. More terrible than a villain you could read about.”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath when brother put the book down on the desk, and turned to face her completely. 

His eyes danced with something she could not name.

“Do you want to know why that is, little sister?”

It took her a moment to answer, overwhelmed by the spark of excitation that suddenly bloomed in her brother’s eyes. It floored her, robbed her entirely of her capacity to speak.

She nodded her head instead, not trusting herself to say something without embarrassing herself further.

“We invite those into our home. We eat with them. Play with them.  _Sleep_ in the same room as them. And we are unaware, blind to the horrors hidden behind their pretty smiles.”

Hermione’s heart accelerated in her chest when Tom grinned at her, all teeth. It was sweet and sugary. It lit up his face like Christmas tree, made the ominousness within his gaze sparkle with amiability and comfort.

It was disconcerting how quickly he could go from terrifying to sweet. How he had done so in the span of a second as he explained how people, though not monsters, could be worse than them.

“Did that answer your question?” 

Hermione clasped her hands together at her back, and shot him a nervous smile. It probably didn’t look nearly as nice as his.

“Yes, thank you, brother.” 

She didn’t wait for his reply.

She didn’t need to. She had known the answer from the very start, had known exactly what he was going to tell her and how, before she had knocked on his bedroom door.

Monsters weren’t real, but they didn’t need to be. 

People like Tom were far more terrifying. 


	15. Soliloquy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Psychological themes, AU- Canon Divergence, Open/Ambiguous Ending

“You look exquisite this evening,” a sultry voice whispered into her ear. 

It took everything within her to not flinch from it, recognition like a wide hand clutching her by the throat. She felt strangled by the pressure, like delicate fingers curled around the sides of her neck.

Then, a warm hand curled around her waist, almost seconds after speaking, and she stopped breathing. Her lungs were tight with distress, the harrowing knowledge that  _he_ was there—his fingers branding her like a hot poker—enough adrenaline spike along her spine.

_The same as it always was...a ghost that refused to leave, that refused to die like a sharp inhale in a windy night._

A hot breath, soft and gentle, wafted against the shell of her ear and Hermione repressed the shudder that threatened that ripple along her shoulders. 

He was too close. Always just several centimeters at her back. Like a memory that flickered behind one’s gaze, like a thought that lodged thickly in the back of one’s skull.

She closed her eyes, clenched them so tightly that they ached from her exertion, as if hoping that the gesture alone would will his presence away. It was futile, she knew. There was really no ignoring this, ignoring  _him_ when he wanted to invade her privacy.

_It was all a game to him, after all. The syncopation of his caprices always seemed to fall in time with mine._

If anyone were to look at them, to capture the moment between herself and the monster just a hair’s length from her back, they’d never suspect just how horrid this all was. They’d see lovers, a man leaning in to whisper praises into the ear of his beloved.

They’d believe that the gentle press of his fingers, that the way his palm brushed clutched at her waist, was a mark of affection. Of  _love._

But it was anything but. His hands were merely a cage. Chains that refused to erode away with the passage of time, a noose that strangled her, but never quite let her die.

He was a disease that refused to leave. Chronic and cruel.

His touch was a curse, his presence a blight. She hated when he touched her, when his whispers in her head became more than simple hisses needling at her deepest secrets. No, this touch was too tangible. Too  _real_.

She wanted nothing to do with it, but how did one swat off the hand of a person that was not truly there? How did one escape from a presence that lived in one’s own head?

Tom Riddle was not real. He was a ghost. A shade of his former self. He was a monster that crept through the darkened halls of one’s mind, who opened doors and made himself at home with the different demons lurking in one’s head. 

He wasn’t real. No, not in the least. 

Though no one could deny that he felt like it. That his fingers, digging softly into her flesh—wrinkling the white shirt she wore as if stood behind her— were a mere figment of her imagination. 

He was as real as one could get; only just short of having the Dark Lord present before her—of scarlet red eyes boring into her own, of white skin that shone white as if lit up by lightening in a darkened sky. 

Tom Riddle was not the Voldemort she had come to expect—had studied meticulously after Harry’s near obsessive discussions of the Dark Lord. His stature was not nearly as imposing, nor were his features the gruesome angles she had, misguided as it was, anticipated. 

Tom Riddle’s face was the opposite. He was beauty, he was smooth skin and red lips. He was dark eyes and long-spidery lashes. There was no fury to be found in that face, no blood lust that even death could not quench. 

He was Lucifer before the fall. 

It was certainly her luck that her problem revolved around a monster that had not fallen to insanity. That his brain, his  _genius_ , flickered like brilliant obsidian in those eyes. Calculating as they sliced into her; the intensity unveiling parts of herself that she never wanted anyone to know.

And how she despised it,  _loathed_ what he did to her. It was a hatred so deep, so nauseating that she never once dreamed that she’d be capable of feeling it. It was like how iron detested water, like how rust ruined the sharpened glass of a blade. 

Everything that she had become, everything that she had done and would continue to do, was because of  _him_.

Though, this outcome had surprised no one, in the end. He had always been exceedingly good at manipulation; talented in the art of deception and avoidance. She had underestimated him, felt almost reassured that he’d never truly succeed in effecting her when she knew who he was. 

None of that mattered in the end. 

He still burrowed himself deeply into her chest, his soul an anchor that had her sinking deep into this abyss. He had broken through her shields, wedged his way inside of her in a similar fashion to the way needles penetrated taut skin. His precision had been perfect—his every word, his every expression, immaculate.

She never stood a chance. A victim of her own doubts, of the words whispered into her ear when Tom Riddle had only been a voice and nothing more. When he didn’t have a means of touching her, when he couldn’t reach her as he could now.

The locket had damned her to this fate, and now, she was forced to live with him inside her, just as Harry lived with Voldemort’s putrid soul inside him. She never felt more connected to Harry than in this, than in the fact that now, they were both prisoners to madmen that salivated at the very idea of control. 

_It was sick._

Her stomach roiled, but Hermione stared levelly at the mirror. Her eyes avoided her reflection, focusing instead on the face of a monster that gazed brazenly back at hers through the glass. She couldn’t bear to look at herself, not after what she had become.

“I would look much better without you in my mind,” she replied, reaching for the brush at the end of the vanity. Her fingers wrapped around the wood, clenching tightly to focus her anxious energy on something else. She wanted nothing more than to rear back, smack his hands away, but it was fruitless. Her hands would only go right through him, anyway.

Riddle’s lips curled into a devious smile, eyes flashing dangerously as if he saw through her act. His fingers tightened on her side, almost bruising in their grip, and Riddle lowered his head as if to whisper into her ear again.

Hermione’s heart accelerated, but she did not react. She didn’t flinch or blink. She remained perfectly immobile as if the devil weren’t pressed against her back, fingers tight around her waist, and lips dangerously close to her ear.

“Hatred looks good on you, Hermione. It makes your eyes  _radiant_ , almost as if you’ve trapped a lit flame within your irises...” he said, ignoring her rebuff to graze his lips against her ear.

Hermione shuddered, unable to repress it when she felt just how warm and moist his mouth was. It was too solid, almost too real for her to handle.

“I wonder if they would shine as brilliantly as Harry’s when in pain, if your lovely brown could capture the same hue of anguish that his does when I whisper into his head...”

Hermione didn’t know when she started trembling in his grip, when his other hand began to trail softly against her throat as she fought off the wave of revulsion and fear that suddenly twisted through her insides. 

“Leave Harry out of this,” Hermione said tightly, fingers white with how fiercely she was clenching on the brush. It was fortunate that she’d enchanted it to survive just about anything. It surely would have shattered in two, otherwise.

“Worrying for others when you should be worrying for yourself...how noble,” Riddle grinned into her neck, and Hermione swallowed audibly when the hand at her neck wrapped around it.

His fingers were hot, but Hermione had never felt colder. 

She closed her eyes, expecting him to squeeze at any moment’s notice, wondering if he’d leave a trace of his touch on her skin when he inevitably did. He wasn’t real, but there was no telling just how powerful the mind could be when under distress.

Hermione knew that firsthand.

“Now now, I don’t plan to kill you, Hermione. I’m not quite through with you yet.”

She didn’t know if that was better or worse. If death would be a mercy compared to living with this parasite in her mind, to growing weaker and weaker with each passing day. Death was assured, of this she had no doubt, but having a choice in how she died was marginally better than being at the whims of a version of Voldemort she could not understand.

He danced between her and Harry. Straddled the tenuous connection between them, following the curve of their souls as if they were the best kind of entertainment. 

It was selfish of her to want him to leave, knowing just how steep a price it was. For him to leave her, for his soul to unwind itself from her spine, pry his choke-hold from her throat, she’d have to subject Harry to the very same fate.

She would rather live a thousand more eternities with Tom Riddle poisoning her mind than leave Harry to him. She would endure. If only for him, if only in the hopes that someday they’d find a way out of this bond.

“Your mind is quite the puzzle. Just when you think you’ve uncovered what makes you tick, something interesting tears away from the catacombs of your thoughts...” Riddle murmured into her ear, and Hermione inhaled sharply when a deep ache began to pulse right at the center of her chest.

_Right where the locket sits between your breasts, where the metal had melted and bled into your quivering skin._

“I see no point in simply sucking you dry until you’re nothing but a husk. Not when I reach the very same end through a much slower path...and unravel your secrets along the way.”

Hermione’s breath stilled. All the air had suddenly vanished, an acute pain stabbing into her lungs when she couldn’t breathe—when her mouth fell open, but no oxygen came.

“Harry Potter, I cannot possess entirely. But  _you_ , with time, you won’t be able to tell the difference between my voice and yours,” Riddle purred before releasing her. 

Fear like never before exploded within her. Irrepressible and relentless. 

_No._

She wanted to scream the word out. She wanted to shout to the tops of her lungs that she would  _never_  allow it. She’d sooner kill herself than permit this.

_No—_

“Sweet dreams,  _Hermione_...I’ll be waiting.”


	16. White Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Angst, Mentions of minor character death, and Tom's general personality.
> 
> This was not beta-read, so tread with caution.
> 
> Leave comments if you enjoyed.

“What does eternity matter if all that you’ve accomplished, when all of your dreams, your hopes, your aspirations, have crumbled? What is  _immortality_ if there is nothing to truly live for?” 

She was curious to hear his answer. She hadn’t meant to ask, but there was no stopping the question once it’d been uttered. She couldn’t take it back, and even if she  _could_ , she doubted she would.

The question had festered in the back of her mind ever since she’d found the diary. Since she had mistakenly, erroneously, brought him back to life like a naive child.

They were bound together. There were no spaces between their hearts. No lines, no walls between their souls to mask their emotions from one another. They were a living conduit of feeling–or lack of, since Tom was more shadow than man, even alive.

Tom tilted his head, and Hermione watched a curl slip away from the tight coif on his head. It was the only source of chaos on his impeccable attire. There was not a single wrinkle on his person. His robes were pressed, his trousers free of any lines that could disrupt the sinuous material.  

Heart racing, Hermione watched Tom’s neutral expression melt into one of amusement. The twinkle of his eye, the almost subtle way that the corner of his mouth turned up, all made her want to squirm. But she refrained. Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and stared at him from across the library table, waiting patiently for his response.

She knew him well enough to know that any break in the careful mask, that any deviation from the status quo meant trouble. She didn’t need to be a prodigy to know that.

“Interesting question, Hermione,” Tom said after a beat, dark eyes an abyss that swallowed all light in the shadowy corners of the library. She ignored the way her stomach curdled at the way her name sounded on his tongue. It sounded like a secret, a prayer to a God in the middle of a darkened church. Reverent.

She didn’t like it, but she didn’t say a word. She’d already lost that battle long ago. 

“What is a short, meaningless life? Why  _do_  welive in spite of the aimless, albeit bleak, realities around us? Why do we do anything at all, when in the end, it is all meaningless? When your Muggle deity might not exist, when the world is awful and stained with the roughened edges of decay?” Tom asked, and Hermione didn’t answer. Tom didn’t actually want a response. At least, not yet.

Something about the way his brow quirked, how the corner of his lip tilted higher still, alerted her to this fact. He wanted her to see things his way, to guide her through his own musings and observations of the world. She’d ask him about his plans, so she’d allow him to dominate the discussion just this once. If only just to get the answer to the implicit question she’d woven in between her utterance, unsaid.

With that thought, she nodded and Tom began speaking once more. Emboldened by her acquiescence.

“Life continues on, with or without us. Purpose and meaning, it is something  _we_ create. If your dreams crumble, you build from the ashes of the fallen empire. If my plans, my goals collapse–” Tom said, tone silky and smooth as he watched her with that annoying gleam in his eye. As if he knew what she was asking implicitly with her question and drawing out the affair, wanting nothing more than to make her squirm, than to show her that she was still the curious child he had met in the beginning of their relationship. 

If one wanted to call it that.

Admittedly, she  _was_  curious, but she was far from a child. He’d ripped every bit of innocence she had–left her broken on the cold and wet floor in the Chamber of Secrets with Ginny’s blood on her hands. Disoriented and horrified at finding the young girl too cold and too pale, the curtain of her red hair almost like blood as it fanned out across the stone floor.

Hermione clenched her jaw, but waited with bated breath for the rest of his monologue. He was far from finished, the magic surrounding him writhed with energy. It was excited, even if the rest of Tom looked perfectly composed.

“–I can simply rise again. Ambition only dies when you do, and if you can never die, even if the world has shattered, if it is  _nothing_ , I will always remain to pick up the fragments and begin again.”

Hermione’s stomach flipped when Tom suddenly rose from his seat, the chair screeching ominously in the library. He walked around it, poised and careful with each individual step until he stopped beside her, his belt buckle gleaming silver. She stared at the metal, unwilling to crane her head to look up at him.

As if she were beneath him,  _belonged_ below him. She refused to entertain that notion. Everything that he did, that he was, was deliberate. Manipulation elevated to an art form that she understood the workings of. 

“But you already knew that, didn’t you? Knew precisely what I would say.”

Warmth settled onto her shoulder, and it took Hermione a moment to realize that he’d touched her–that the heat that spread from that precise point on her shoulder was his  _hand._

She sucked in a deep breath when his fingers squeezed her, the gesture forcing her to tilt her up to look at him. She hadn’t wanted to, but Tom cared little for her desires.

His eyes were burning, the image of the world leveled to the ground like a phantom skulking in shadowed hallways. She could see the world as he described it, could see the cries of the weak and the laughter of the wicked as they pillaged town after town. Inevitably conquering the world just as Alexander the Great had seized country after country–none able to withstand the assault. 

He wanted to be the next Alexander the Great. He wanted to take the world into his hands like the way he had latched onto the edges of her own tattered soul and refused to let go. Unable to, or perhaps, unwilling to let her go after she had poured nearly all of herself into the pages of the diary.

What a silly girl she had been, thinking that she had made a new friend, had met a  _boy_ that saw more than just her bossy attitude or her know-it-all tendencies. He had made her believe that she was  _special_. So she had sacrificed it all for the praise and the attention, to be recognized as more than just a simple muggleborn witch that devoured books after books. 

When in his presence, when hidden behind the leather bindings encasing the parchment, she had been  _alive_. She had been so much more. More than just a witch, more than just the bookworm that hung around Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. 

Tom had seen her mind, had seen her heart, and she had believed that he had wanted all of her. But that had all been lies. Carefully crafted and executed. He only had one goal.

_Immortality._

And now, here they were. In the Hogwarts Library, having a philosophical conversation about how and when he would take over the world. It was absurd, but it was her life. There was no changing the past.

“Yes, I did,” Hermione finally said, wincing when he turned her with utmost care, forcing her body turn toward him. The table dug into her side, but she hardly noticed when his gaze arrested her own.

There was something swirling there that she could not place, but she didn’t dare ask. She wanted to know what he would do if the world did not bow to him, but she would never dare ask why he looked at her the way he did.

Lies she could handle, but truths were another matter entirely. And knowing him, he’d tell her more than she ever cared to know, if only just to see her squirm.

“Tell me, Hermione. What will you _do_  when the world comes apart at the seams?”

His lips stretched into a grin, and Hermione shuddered at the hunger she found there like  _serpent’s fangs glistening in the dark, rearing up before plunging into flesh._

She didn’t have to mull over her answer. She already knew her answer. 

“Kill you.”

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t flinch away from the ice in her veins or the adrenaline pulsing in time with the syncopation of her heart–or was it his? She didn’t know anymore. Not when they were tied together in ways she couldn’t even begin to explain.

Their souls were bound, hearts nearly one. His death would kill her too. Their souls were irrevocably intertwined and it was a moot point to think she’d live to see all his hard work undone.

That fact didn’t erase her conviction. She  _would_  kill him. She would tear the world from out of his hands, crush his dreams and aspirations beneath her fist. It would not stop her. 

Death would be a respite. It would be a reward, not a punishment.

There was no redeeming this man. 

At first, she had tried. Once she’d learned of his true intentions, Ginny’s death a stain on her blackened soul, she’d done all that she could to save him. Not because she herself cared for him,  _loved_ him. No, but she understood how love could change a person.

She’d justified her actions under the idea that perhaps, if Tom had received it as a child, he might have changed. That maybe, as an adolescent, it was not too late to steer him away from this dark path.

And to a degree, she wasn’t wrong. It was true that had Tom been loved as a child, shown affection and warmth, he could have been someone else. She understood it, knew just how much of a difference a stable and healthy childhood was. It was a necessity.

It had fueled her efforts, and to an extent, she had succeeded in showing him love. It hadn’t been too late to show him. She herself, inevitably falling into the darkness to drag him into warmth that only love could bring.

Love was powerful and there was no doubt that it could save even the most haunted.

But she had been a fool. A naive, softhearted idiot thinking that if she could teach Tom love that it would unmake the monster. That  _love_ would somehow be enough to pry him away from his goals and aspirations. 

It had made him worse. She had forgotten, in the heat of the moment, in her desperation, that love made monsters too. That love drew forth the worst in a person. That it too was a toxin, could erode bone and muscle, just as readily as hatred.

Love saved as easily as it destroyed, and she had forgotten this fact. It had been her undoing. Perhaps, would still be her undoing.Tom loved, but he was no better for it.

Tom loosened his tight grip on her shoulder to trail his fingers up her neck, sharp nails and warm fingers drawing forth shivers she did not want to experience. He did not speak for a long time as he did, almost as though he were memorizing the texture of her skin with his fingers.

Then, his fingers fell away and he stepped back, away from her space.

She felt immediately lighter for it, as if his presence were no longer choking her now that he had stepped away.

“Perhaps,” he whispered, tone suddenly devoid of emotion before walking away.

She didn’t move for a long time, unable to erase the admiration that flashed in his gaze. Pride and something else, something she refused to acknowledge, like a brand.


	17. Cupid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: None  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Foul language, Tom Riddle being a creep, Ron decided to play matchmaker

“No.”   
  
“But—“   
  
“Absolutely  _ not. _ ” Hermione hissed, glowering at Ron.    
  
It was unacceptable. She couldn’t believe what he’d dared insinuate about her  _ with Riddle _ ! She would never. Not since he’d bloody humiliated her in the middle of Slughorn’s paltry party Fifth Year.   
  
Ron made to open his mouth once more, but at Hermione’s censuring look, he clamped up immediately. She knew he knew that look. She remembered vividly the last time she’d given him that  _ look _ in fact.   
  
She’d hexed him so thoroughly that he’d been coughing chicken feathers for weeks, the magic resistant to even Madame Pomfrey’s magical ministrations.    
  
If he had any sense, he’d leave things be.   
  
She should have known he’d take the risk anyway.   
  
“Hermione, it’s just—he  _ likes you _ ,” Ron said, arms flying up placatingly when the energy around her began to cackle with ill repressed rage. It was as if he were trying to calm an enraged hippogriff rather than a normal witch.   
  
“No, he does—“   
  
“ _ Hermione _ , please. He brought you bloody flowers after he’d transfigured that nest of birds into them,” Ron interrupted, deadpan.

Hermione grimaced, as if physically pained, recalling with vivid detail that unfortunate afternoon. She’d been harassed for  _ weeks _ after that. Riddle’s bloody fan club had driven her mad; she had to hex them each of them at different intervals of that month to get them off her back.   
  
She opened her mouth, but Ron cut her off before she could even air her next grievance.   
  
“You can’t deny it, ‘Mione. Sure he’s a  _ Slytherin _ of all things, but he’s not that bad. If I weren’t with Lavender, he’d have seduced me too with how aggressively he’s making a pass at you.”   
  
Hermione flushed several shades of red and sputtered.    
  
_ No. _   
  
“Look, you can pretend what he’s doing isn’t flirting, but I certainly won’t. Harry is already making bets about when the next gift will be,” Ron said, grinning when Hermione couldn’t speak. He wasn’t eating; his attention was entirely on her and her obvious discomfort.

And almost, as if summoned by some unknown bloody magic, she felt a stare at the back of her head. It was unmistakable who it was. This was the daily routine. Riddle always bloody stared at her during breakfast, lunch, and just about  _ any _ time in the year ever since she got him back Fifth Year for the stupid prank.

Now he was like a cancer. A bloody illness that refused to leave, sucking the very life out of her because he refused to  _ leave her alone. _ She was convinced this was payback, that at some point in the near future, he’d get her alone and murder her.    
  
She’d counted the days like she counted her notebooks, made her calculations for Arithmancy, but the day never came. No hex had come in her direction. Everything was normal.   
  
Except, Tom Riddle stared at her now, spoke to her every chance he had.

_ Gave her bloody gifts every chance he got. _

“Oh, speak of the devil,” Ron said, and Hermione groaned aloud, refusing to turn back and give Riddle the time of day.    
  
“You should say hello, you know he’s just going to stare at you until he burns a hole into your head.”   
  
Hermione didn’t respond to the obvious needling. She was more than aware of this fact. Riddle’s gaze was like a physical touch.  It was impossible for her to not know  _ exactly _ what Riddle did on a daily basis.   
  
“ _ Ronald _ —“ Hermione started, but Ron, instead of heeding her warning and focusing on the food splayed out on the table like the feast it was, glanced over to where Hermione knew the Slytherins sat and  _ waved. _ She couldn’t believe it.

Hermione didn’t think. She snatched Ron’s arm in a vicious grip and wrenched the arm back down to the table. Ron’s yelp did nothing to dissuade her, all that she could think of in that moment was—

_ No, don’t let him come over here. _

She would not abide it. It was bad enough she shared classes with Riddle, she didn’t  _ need _ to interact with him outside of it, let alone in the morning.   
  
“‘Mione, that  _ hurts _ ,” Ron whined before he pulled his hand back from her grip to casually inspect it. There were crescent marks on the flesh. Red and puffy in areas where she’d dragged her nails along the flesh with good measure. Hermione didn’t have the heart to feel guilty in that moment. All she felt was  _ vindicated _ .

It served him right.

But Ron, rather than look sufficiently apologetic, righted himself and grinned smugly at her.    
  
All the color drained from her cheeks.   
  
“Don’t tell me—“ Hermione started, but she was unable to finish. Shocked and utterly unnerved by what this meant for her in that moment. Ron’s brilliant blue eyes said it all. Riddle was walking over, right that moment. The minute flicker of Ron’s gaze to his injured arm, her face, somewhere off to the side, and back, told her everything she needed to know.

Ron had summoned the devil, and now the monster was coming their way, unable to ignore the promise that this presented. A moment, a chance, to speak to her before class would be his reward.

_ Not if I leave first. _

Hermione rose from the table to leave, slung her bag over her shoulder quicker than she’d ever had before. One would think she was late to class for all her haste; pulse jumping wildly in her chest. But no, she was far from late. She would be  _ early  _ if she got her way.

But in her hasty retreat, instead of cutting across the hall and into freedom, she bumped into a solid body. Stumbling, her feet slid messily on the floor, but rather than crash into the cutlery and plates laid out on the table, two solid arms caught her.   
  
“Thanks, I’m so so—“   
  
“Careful, we wouldn’t want the brightest witch of her age getting hurt.”   
  
Hermione froze, horror and recognition overtaking her. She  _ knew _ that voice. She’d heard it in her head, threatening her with retribution. It was a voice that answered questions as thoroughly as she. Deep and melodic, soft and almost seductive with the way it seemed to wrap everyone but her with its thrall.   
  
_ Fuck. _   
  
She’d bumped into Tom Riddle. She was in the arms of  _ Tom bloody Riddle. _

“You have one bloody minute to let go of me.” 

Hermione’s tone brooked no room for argument. Body tense, nerves alight with fury as she tried to will away everything urging her to elbow him in the gut.   
  
It wouldn’t do to lose her cool like that. That sort of behavior was something Ron, or hell even Harry, would resort to. She wouldn’t compromise her values for violence. No, she’d be civil. She’d tell him to fuck off.   
  
And  _ then _ if he refused, she’d resort to what her mum and dad had taught her all those years ago when she was the underdog in her old school.   
  
Tom Riddle released her immediately, to both her relief and utter disappointment. It’d have been a good excuse to hurt him.    
  
“My, you’re quite violent.”    
  
Hermione whirled around, brow twitching with annoyance at the amusement in the boy’s tone. He didn’t have any right to be. He didn’t know a single thing about her character or her tendencies to even comment.

His familiarity with her was unwanted, and frankly, offensive.

“Anyone would be if a complete stranger had accosted their person. It’s rude,” Hermione spat, and Riddle laughed at her.    
  
Black eyes flashed warmly at her, and Hermione was momentarily thrown by them. She hadn’t expected that sort of reaction. Anyone would have already gone on the defensive, would have felt offended at such an accusation.   
  
Apparently Riddle, aside from being a slimy serpent, was strange one as well. Maybe even crazy. It wouldn’t surprise her in the least if that was the case, considering. The boy didn’t know when to bloody  _ quit. _   
  
“Stranger? I think I’m more than that,  _ Hermione _ .   
  
A gasp disrupted the bubble that had formed around them from the moment she’d realized Riddle was there. She’d completely forgotten Ron was sitting at their table, his plate of food still piled with food he’d yet to touch.   
  
_ Shit. _   
  
Hermione turned to look at Ron, but the boy’s back was to her. His attention was fixed in his plate, almost as if he’d found some renewed interest in his meal.   
  
Brown eyes narrowed with displeasure, suspicious.   
  
“We’re hardly friends, Riddle,” Hermione said offhandedly, glaring at Ron with all the fury she could muster.   
  
The  _ git. _ It was his fault Riddle had come over in the first place.    
  
“I’d like for us to be.”

Everything around her stilled.

_ What did he just say? _   
  
Hermione blinked several times, uncomprehending. She had to be hallucinating. She didn’t just hear what she thought she’d heard.   
  
Riddle asking to be  _ friends? _ Her of all people? After what he’d done to her Fifth Year?    
  
Not bloody likely.   
  
A slow, vicious smile twisted on her lips. Furious that he’d  _ dared _ say such a thing.    
  
“How about you take your friendship and shove it up your—“   
  
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Riddle interrupted, voice blank, eyes suddenly devoid of all amusement as he watched her.   
  
Hermione didn’t miss a beat. She wasn’t a bloody Hufflepuff he could bend under a whim.   
  
“I don’t recommend pissing me off,” Hermione replied, tone sickeningly sweet. “You think you’re so bloody perfect—like you  _ own _ this school—”    
  
Hermione’s shoulders squared, and against all reason, against all common sense in that moment, stepped into Riddle’s space to look him dead in the eye. She didn’t flinch when his jaw tensed, the motion so distinct that not even the most obtuse would miss it.   
  
“But let me tell you something. A word of advice if you will—” Hermione was staring into his eyes, practically breathing the same air. She almost tasted the cologne he put on that morning from how close—the sharp smell of pine and rainwater wound into a surprisingly pleasant scent.   
  
“You don’t  _ own _ me. You’re nothing to me, and if you dare speak to me again, I assure you that I won’t hold back.”   
  
The room around them had faded into nothing once again. It was only them too in that moment. The sound of the crowded lunch hall, the screech of cutlery grinding against plates, dissipated. Everything fizzled out. It was no match to the fury rushing through her veins and the magnetic pull of his eyes.   


She wanted him to back down, to see him  _ bend _ just as he made all the rest. It would give her no greater pleasure than to see Mr. Head Boy heel, and Hermione’s blood  _ sang  _ with it. Waiting, in that moment, for Riddle to take her at her word—

Then, without warning, contrary to all her expectations, he closed the space between them. He took a step forward, pressed his chest against her own and she tasted the brush of soft lips against her own. A hot breath, a ghost of it ran along her own moist mouth.   
  
It shocked her.   
  
“I accept your challenge.”

Hermione tensed, but didn't move. She couldn't. So great was her shock that she didn't think to step back until a corner of Riddle's mouth turned up into a smile, mischief swimming along the obsidian of his gaze.   
  
A backwards step, and she was out of Riddle's space, the only evidence that they'd even touched, the whisper of heat clinging stubbornly to her lips and chest. It scalded her, a brand that refused to abate. There was nothing she could do to dispel the sensation from her skin; the distance between them did  _ nothing _ .   
  
Hermione tilted her chin up, as if she'd smelled something particularly foul. Riddle did not speak, only watched her, eyes flickering down to her lips to stare at the way they trembled with her discomfort. A flush bloomed along her cheeks against her will at the pleased smile that overtook his expression.   
  
"This isn't a  _ game _ , Riddle. I am warning you—"   
  
"I'm aware. Your concerns have been noted, but it will not dissuade me."   
  
Hermione sputtered at the nonchalant comment, Riddle's relaxed posture adding more fuel to the flame when he didn't bat an eye at her threat. He should have been afraid, should have been at least a bit intimidated as anyone else would be. Hermione Granger was not someone to mess with, not since she'd started cursing jealous witches thirsting after Riddle's affections.   
  
"You're absolutely mad."

She was never more certain of this fact than in this moment. The fact that Riddle still remained where he was, infuriatingly cool, assured her of this. No one with a brain would goad her this way. They knew better.   
  
It seemed Riddle didn't.   


"Madness is subjective. It is what others label what they do not understand," Riddle said, head tilting to one side in consideration. As if he were looking at Hermione for the first time, as if he could  _ see _ her, look past the wild curls on her head and deep into her soul.   
  
She didn't like it. Not one bit.   
  
It made her skin crawl.   
  
"It is perhaps your greatest flaw. You stunt your potential, interrupt your growth, all because you do not wish to explore the unknown — " Riddle continued, voice deceivingly gentle as he spoke. It did not match the words he said, it did not match the cold that settled over his face.   
  
Hermione was speechless. Her tongue lodged in her throat, as if someone had stolen her capacity to speak.   
  
"Madness is creativity. It is pursuing a path that no other dares to go. All in the search for answers to questions in the back of one's head. Without it, we are no better than the dead. Our lives would amount to nothing."   
  
Riddle spoke with a conviction she'd never heard from him before. The words came, and for once, she wanted to listen, to hear what he had to say. It was...confusing. This was perhaps the first time he'd really spoken to her about his views and opinions. He'd always hidden himself behind a mask of politeness — always insufferably fake, but now, he was telling her that she was no better than a corpse? That for all her intelligence, she was no better than the words written by dead men?

Her surprise slowly melted into anger, the shock of him actually insulting her intelligence too much for her to recognize at first. Hermione quickly recovered, not one to back down when insulted.   
  
"Madness is not creativity. It is a fallacy, an excuse for one to go beyond the sensible thing. One thing is to be curious, to want answers for something with little to no explanation. But it is entirely another for you to chase after something you  _ shouldn't _ follow. You say I lack creativity, but you, Riddle, lack  _ sense. _ "   
  
She watched the way his nose flared and his jaw tensed — eyeing how the careful mask cracked right along the edges, as if she'd hit a nerve.   
  
_ Good. _   
  
"I may be dead in your eyes, Riddle. But at least, I am not  _ lost _ ." Hermione spat, satisfied with Riddle’s cold silence. Shooting Ron one more glower as an afterthought, she stormed out of the dining hall. She hoped Ron  _ choked  _ on his meal. Of all days to bring Riddle over, it had to be the day they had all their bloody classes with the Slytherins.   
  
Her day had only  _ just  _ started, and already she wished that it was over.   
  
_ Thanks, Ron. _


	18. Till Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: None  
> Rating: E  
> Tags: Serial Killer, Blood, Dubious Consent, Threats, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Not-beta read
> 
> If you liked, please comment. I wrote this up randomly.

They’d been happy.   
  
At least, that was what she’d first believed when they’d married—gleaming eyes and upturned lips excited with the prospect of marriage life. Everyone had told them as much. Believed in their heart of hearts that they were perfect for one another.   
  
But that wasn’t true. Not anymore.    
  
The scales had finally fallen away from her eyes, and she now saw him for who he was. The monster he would always be, hidden deep beneath sweet kisses and gentle caresses.   
  
Tom Riddle was not who he had pretended to be. Not the man she’d fallen for, and certainly, not the man that stood before her now, drenched in blood.   
  
Rivulets of iron and crimson trickled down his neck, saturating the thin blue sweater she’d bought him two weeks before. He looked a nightmare. Inhuman and unreal, the twisted smile on his face unrecognizable to her.   
  
She’d never seen that look on his face before. It didn’t fit, the corners of his lips and the wicked glee in his eyes  _ didn’t fit. _ She wanted to rip it from his face—to grab a rag and just rub and  _ rub _ at his face until he looked like the man she’d known.   
  
“Well, this is unexpected,” Tom said casually. The fact that he was drenched in  _ blood _ and moist flesh, ignored.   
  
Hermione didn’t want to believe it.    
  
“You were supposed to be at work until 7.” Tom tilted his head curiously, and Hermione swallowed audibly, nausea and anxiety lodged in her throat.   
  
The stench of iron, sweat, and vomit assaulted her senses, and Hermione for one startling second wondered where the smell came from. There was blood  _ everywhere _ , but no evidence of vomit to be found.    
  
Tom certainly wasn’t doused in it. No, the red was unmistakable. It was blood and no more than that.   
  
“...I left early. I-I had wanted to surprise you,” she replied, still in a state of shock.   
  
_ This wasn’t supposed to happen...this couldn’t be happening... _   
  
Hermione fingers clenched into fists, watching how Tom wiped his fingers on his shirt, smearing the blue with more red.   
  
"What did you  _ do _ ?" Hermione choked out, rearing back when Tom Riddle stepped toward her. She didn't want him to touch her. There was blood on his hands, there was blood on his  _ face _ , blood on his  _ shirt _ . He'd sully her.    
  
"Oh god, Tom, what have you bloody  _ done _ ?"   
  
Bile crept up her throat, and it took everything within her to not vomit what she'd had for lunch earlier that afternoon. A lunch that  _ he _ had prepared for her. A meal that he labored over with her the previous day, before they'd made love. His hands—the very same hands that were  _ soiled _ with blood—had touched her meal.   
  
"You weren't supposed to find out, you know," Tom said, ignoring her question. The euphoria from seconds before, when she'd walked into the kitchen to the sound of his  _ singing _ , now absent. It all drained from his face, until there was nothing but a blank expression.    
  
Hermione wasn't sure if this was better or worse than the insane glee from before.   
  
"I never wanted you to know. Not until you were ready."   
  
Hermione bumped into the couch, nearly tumbling onto the cushion.    
  
"Ready for what Tom? For you to tell me you were a  _ murderer _ ?" Hermione scrambled from the couch, all without tearing her eyes away from Tom's impassive face.   
  
She didn't trust turning her back on him. She didn't trust this man at  _ all _ . It was all a lie. He was nothing but a fantasy. She'd married a monster in sheep's cloth. None of it was real, and she wasn't sure which of the two notions hurt worse—that he was a monster or that he'd  _ lied _ to her for all this time.   
  
They'd known one another for ten years, been married for two of those ten. Dated for four of those ten, and somehow, she hadn't known a single thing about him.

Tears stung in the corner of her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. She swallowed them up, never to be found because she wasn't  _ weak _ . She wouldn't break in front of him. Even when her heart felt like it'd been torn out of her chest and flung to the nearest dirty street.   
  
"Or that you never loved me at all? That this—," she gestured to the living room they'd adorned together in their marriage. "—was all a lie? That you were simply playing pretend until you grew bored of me and killed me too?"   
  
Tom did not speak for a long time.    
  
He only watched her, his dark eyes taking her in. She didn't know what he saw in her, what he was searching for, but Hermione decided right then that she didn't give a damn. She was calling the police. Someone was dying or possibly  _ dead _ .    
  
Her feelings were irrelevant. She needed to get them help, whoever this was. If she assumed that this was only one victim, because surely, with the amount of blood in the living room floor, it was possible that there were more.   
  
"Hermione—"   
  
"Don't," Hermione interrupted, unwilling and unable to listen. Her heart was tearing at the seams, but she paid it little mind. She needed to get a phone, to call for help. If only she hadn't left it by the front door when she'd come in. If only they hadn't made it a habit of leaving their things at the entrance so that they could find it better when getting ready for work.   
  
Tom's expression cracked at the edges, a twinge of something that looked like pain flashing in his eyes. It was the closest to human he'd looked all afternoon, but Hermione ignored it. He had manipulated her, lied to her for  _ years _ . How did she know that that break wasn't fake too? How did she know that any of this, that any sort of expression on his face wasn't some bloody performance?   
  
She'd prided herself on knowing him better than most. Smug that  _ she _ of all of Tom's acquaintances could read his mood—hell, even  _ understand _ him.    
  
She knew better now. She’d been wrong, so  _ bloody wrong _ . She didn’t know him at all.   
  
"I knew this would happen," Tom said, a strange gleam flashing in his gaze.   
  
It was the only warning she had before Tom shot forward, arms outstretched towards her.    
  
Hermione screamed and jerked back, twisting around to run from the living room and toward the front door.    
  
_ No. _   
  
She knew what this meant. He was going to kill her. Silence her. It was how these things went, it was how the crime thrillers she read all culminated to.

Hermione forced her legs to move, blood rushing through her veins with adrenaline and fear.    
  
She needed to make it to the front door. All she had to do was get to her purse where he cellphone was and call the police. She could do this. She  _ had _  to do this. Tom would kill her, she knew it. Felt it deep in the pit of her stomach.   
  
Tom had not batted an eye when she'd come in. Neither surprised or incensed that she'd arrived. No. He was still flushed with his exertions. High off the adrenaline of torturing or possibly murdering someone. He'd kill her, there was no doubt in her mind. She wouldn't pretend otherwise.   
  
_ Just a little further. _   
  
Hermione's fingers caught around her bag, but before she could rummage through it for her phone, pain exploded right in the back of her head.   
  
Her head jerked back, long and familiar fingers weaving through the strands, to pull until Hermione dropped her purse. She struggled, kicked at his shins and clawed at that hand, but Tom was stronger than her—had anticipated the struggle. An arm closed around her neck, the inner joint of his elbow pressed against her windpipe.   
  
She choked, nails cutting into his arm, as she tried to suck in the precious air he'd deprived her.    
  
Then, a breath of warm air wafted against her ear, followed by wet lips that tugged at the sensitive skin.   
  
"Do you have any idea how long I've wished for you to  _ see _ me for what I am? How long I've waited to have you here, trembling in my arms, with your life in my hands?" Tom whispered, his other arm wrapping around her waist to press her against his chest.   
  
Hermione wanted to speak, but all that escaped her gaping mouth, were faint wheezes. Her eyes were darkening at the corners from the pressure, the dark wood of the front door melting into shadows the longer he held her in his arms without giving her a sliver of air.   
  
"Do you know how  _ difficult _ it was to restrain myself, to desist from closing my hand around your throat and strangling you when buried deep inside you?" Tom murmured and ground his cock against her bum, hard.   
  
Tears welled and fell from the corners of her eyes, throat on  _ fire _ .   
  
"I was willing to wait for however long it took to show you just how intoxicating taking a life could be—"   
  
Tom's hand dropped from her waist to trail lower, fingers teasing at her quivering stomach, nails digging through her shirt until it stung. The pain only made her whine, made her recognize just how  _ fucked _ she was in that moment.   
  
He was going to kill her, but it wouldn't be swift. He would take his time, just as he did when they made love. Removing layer after layer of her clothing before he so much as kissed her. A maddening thing that inspired both desire and ire all at once.   
  
It was jarring how he could make murder seem like lovemaking. How a threat could sound like something salacious and dirty.   
  
It was  _ wrong _ .    
  
"—but you've forced my hand, Hermione."

Tom dropped his hand lower, thumb brushing against the button of her jeans. It was a light press, but Hermione's stomach clenched at the familiarity of the gesture. Recalling how he'd undressed her one too many times in the past, how those hands— _ hands drenched in the blood of his victims _ —undid them and buried themselves into her knickers  as a precursor to their lovemaking.   
  
It was  _ filthy _ how he made her recall that at such an inappropriate time. How, even when posed with danger, even with the knowledge that he'd murdered some innocent, she still felt something other than disgust.   
  
Betrayal and something else, something that had no business dwelling in her gut, came alive. A deep sided hurt that wrenched her more than the arm coiled around her neck and this unwanted jolt of excitement.   
  
The irony of it was not lost on her.    
  
"T-tom," she croaked, lost to the haze of asphyxiation. To the feeling of Tom's hands touching her, draining her completely of her resistance.   
  
Her struggling wavered, tapering off until her arms were no longer able to keep their grip on his forearm. They dropped like heavy weights to her sides, until they were nothing more than swinging dumbbells rather than her own arms. 

The world faded around her, going completely black.   
  
She was  _ dying _ , she knew. He was choking her to death. Squeezing 'round her windpipe until all she could hear, all that she could taste, and all that she could  _ see  _ was darkness. Tom's arms were the only things keeping her upright, keeping her anchored to the world around her.   
  
It wasn't lost on her that it was those were the same arms that had pulled her adrift in the first place. Tom Riddle was the one that had swallowed her up, that sucked her dry of all her will to live. A weakness, a  _ cancer _ , that devoured her whole like the wide maw of a hungry serpent.   
  
She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Suddenly no longer frightened of the prospect of death, because in a way, she'd be free of the pain. She wouldn't have to deal with the heartbreak, with the reality that her  _ Tom _ , that the man she had loved, the man she'd known for so  _ long _ , was a monster.   
  
Death would be a mercy. An escape from it all, even if permanent. At least, she thought darkly, she wouldn't have to face the devil after she passed because he still resided in the world of the living, in the body of the man she  _ married. _

She wanted this to end, this  _ pain _ , to stop.   
  
"K-kill me," Hermione wheezed, defiant until the very end. "d-do it."

Hermione closed her eyes, prepared for the sweet taste of death. Hoping, yearning, that he would do her the favor of snuffing her flame.    
  
But the sweet release of death never came. Instead, rather than the comforting lull of the Grim Reaper murmuring prayers into her ear, than the slow creep into that abyss pulling tightly on her navel, she heard laughter. A soft, honest sound that cut through the haze immediately and shook her to the core. A deep, insidious sound she doubted she would ever forget even in the afterlife.   
  
"Still so naive."   
  
_ What—? _   
  
The arm around her neck eased its pressure, and Hermione, against her will, sucked deep, greedy breaths into her lungs. Each breath burned as if she were drinking in scalding water rather than air. It hurt, the pain unlike anything she'd ever experienced before, and she  _ hated _ it.    
  
He was supposed to kill her. It was what she'd expected, what she  _ wanted. _   
  
What was Tom thinking?    
  
"W-what are you—?" Tom unbuttoned her jeans with a deft twist of his fingers, unzipped her pants and plunged his hand inside before she could finish her sentence.    
  
His arm was still wrapped around her throat, lips pressed to her ear, but something had changed. The violence, the threat of death—all of it was different.    
  
It didn't make any sense.   
  
"It seems you've misinterpreted my intentions, sweetheart," Tom said, burying his hand further inside, fingers curling on the outside of her knickers—the familiar heat enough to make her bend back, heart race with misplaced excitement.   
  
"I'm not going to kill you," he purred, teeth closing around the shell of her ear to bite the skin.   
  
A deep shudder wracked through her at the twin sensations, arousal trickling slowly between her thighs against her will.    
  
_ This was wrong _ .   
  
"No, I've worked too hard to let  _ this _ —" Tom curled his fingers beneath her underwear, thumb slipping between her folds to graze her clit as if in emphasis, "—go to waste."   
  
Hermione's spine arched, a shock of pleasure rushing through her veins. She moaned despite herself, a deep seeded hatred for both herself and Tom forming in her heart. Her guilt a noxious presence that oozed into her mind, hardened her mind.   
  
_ "No." _   
  
"I would have preferred to ease you gently, I have no need for a broken spouse." 

Tom continued to speak as if he had not heard her, rutting his cock against the swell of her arse as his fingers toyed with her cunt. Setting a slow and methodical pace that made all the hairs on Hermione's neck stand on end.    
  
Sharp breaths escaped her lips, a desperate needy sound that made her cheeks burn with shame. A feeling she’d never experienced before while intimate with Tom.   
  
"But based on this afternoon's performance, it is still not too late for you."   
  
She felt his lips curl into a smile against her ear, and his thumb stroke along her clit, knowing just where to touch after years of intimacy.    
  
Hermione snapped, enraged.   
  
"Kill me!" Hermione shouted.   
  
She squirmed against him, horrified at her own reactions and the implication in his words. He wouldn't. He  _ couldn't. _   
  
She wouldn't let him. She'd sooner kill herself than condone murder, than kill with him. He was absolutely insane if he believed he could sway her.   
  
"No, I will not. You are my  _ wife _ , to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part." 

The fact that he was quoting their marriage vows were not lost on her. It made her burn, made her chest twinge with agony. Memories of their wedding, recollections of their earlier days when they’d become husband and wife like a slap to the face.

A  _ murderer. Your married a murderer Hermione. A bloody serial killer, no less. _   
  
Tom stroked her until she was sopping wet, until her breath labored, until her stomach clenched with the wicked promise of completion in the back of her throat. He circled around her clit, merciless, coaxing her towards an orgasm she did not want to experience..   
  
Not when his hands were dirty, when he had planned to kill her. When he'd  _ lied _ to her.

He circled around the nub, pushed her near the edge, only to back away when she  _ whined _ . She hated this.   
  
"I would rather  _ die _ ," she hissed between moans, choking on his arm when he squeezed her once more, in warning.   
  
"You're a terrible liar," Tom teased, nipping at her ear before thrusting two fingers inside and curling them to nudge into her g-spot.   
  
Hermione's vision wavered, the lack of air and the methodical thrusting of his fingers driving her bloody insane. He was ruthless, tearing unwanted mewls from her lips.   
  
"We both know that if you didn't want this,  _ love _ me, you would have broken my hold. You—" Tom groaned into her ear, rocking his hips against her arse in time with each thrust of his fingers. "—would have dropped  me to the ground. You are more than capable of defending yourself."   
  
Hermione whined, unable to speak when his thumb pushed so hard against her clit that it hurt, the dawning reality that he was  _ right _ more intolerable than his fingers pushing her towards ecstasy.   
  
_ Why don’t you fight this? What are you thinking _ ?   
  
"Admit it, sweetheart. What terrifies you is not the murder, not the blood staining your skin—" Hermione shook her head, mouth opening and closing to speak, but the words refused to come. She was hanging from a precipice, the edge so close that she could taste it on her tongue.   
  
He kept her there, trembling for it, and Hermione hated how desperately she wanted to get off. How, in spite of the blood soaking his shirt, soaking into her back, she still managed to be aroused by this.

Everything from the press of his chest against her back, the feeling of his fingers twisting inside, the heat of his breath against her ear, and the tight coil of his arm around her throat all threatened to tip her over. It was only a matter of time before she did, and she  _ knew _ it.    
  
"—but yourself. The fact that even now, as sullied as I am, you still want me is what frightens you."   
  
And then, Tom's lips dropped from her ear, skimming along the trembling skin, and sank his teeth into her throat—   
  
Pain, and indescribable pleasure cut through her. Her vision blanked. Eyes open but unseeing as she screamed herself hoarse. Unable to do much else but rut against his hand from the intensity. Mind lost to the jolts of ecstasy and adrenaline that pulsed to the same rhythm of her racing heart.   
  
It was singlehandedly the most intense orgasm she'd had in her life. The sweet lovemaking of the past, the lazy and tender brush of his lips against her neck, did not compare to the dual sensations of pain and pleasure assaulting her.   
  
She slumped into his arms, boneless. Mind racing a mile a minute because she'd  _ given in _ . She'd played into his hand. She'd lost herself and had let her affections sweep her away.   
  
He was right.   
  
Hermione was more adept at hand to hand combat than he was. She knew how to hurt a man, knew where to press to get him to release her even  _ if  _ she was smaller. Daintier. She was as lethal as a brandished blade. A woman capable of making men like Tom, tall and strong as he was, bend to her will.   
  
And she'd let him subdue her.   
  
Everything that'd transpired that night was because she'd  _ let him _ .    
  
"You might never forgive me for the deception, but with time, you will see things my way. You know I can be very persuasive when I want something."   
  
Hermione shuddered in his arms, but didn't otherwise move. It was pointless. Her limbs were practically goo after breaking apart on his fingers. It didn’t help matters that his fingers were still hooked inside her, that his thumb still circled lazily around her clit.   
  
"You're bent if you think I'll accept this. This is  _ illegal _ , Tom."   
  
Tom simply hummed against her neck, lapping at the smarted skin like a content cat.    
  
"I know."   
  
Tom removed his arm from her neck to tilt her head to one side until she saw the corner of Tom's mouth. He was smiling. The same familiar, sweet smile that he'd given her right before he sent her off to work that morning.   
  
Hermione couldn't believe it.   
  
"But I doubt you will mind after I'm through with you,” his words a death sentence. A promise that Hermione would be foolish to mistake for truth.   
  
“After all—” he murmured into her skin, lips grazing her jaw “—all we have is  _ time _ .”   
  
His mouth was hot against her flesh, his fingers familiar and indulgent in their caresses, but Hermione never felt more alone.


End file.
